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I 


THE  LIFE 


JOHN  RUSKIN 


W.  G.  COLLEN'GWOOD 


BOSTON  ANT)  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

Cbe  IltBrroilit  {htaa,  Camtnlijc 


C7// 
/ 


The  Life  and  Work  of  John  Muskin,  by 
W.  G.  Collingwood,  M.  A.^  in  two  volumes, 
the  contents  of  ichich  arc  largely  incorporated 
in  this  book,  teas  2>iiblii</ied  aiid  copyrighted 
in  1893,  by  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


PREFACE 


This  book  is  not  merely  a  reprint  of  'The  Life  and  Work 
of  John  Ruskin  ;  2  vols.,  181)3.'  The  whole  has  been  re- 
written on  somewhat  different  lines. 

Of  late  years  re-issues  and  cheaper  editions  have  made 
Mr.  Kiiskin's  writings  much  more  accessible ;  some  which 
I  described  from  the  MS.  have  been  published,  so  that  ab- 
stracts of  their  contents  are  less  wanted  now. 

Many  '  studies '  of  Kuskin  have  appeared,  so  that  expo- 
sition of  his  teaching  need  no  longer  interrupt  the  narra- 
tive. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  have  been  able  to  add  much  new 
biographical  detail  from  various  sources,  especially  from  the 
old  papers  and  journals  at  Brantwood.  With  Mr.  Kuskin's 
leave,  and  by  permission  of  Mr.  George  Allen,  who  has  a 
claim  ujMin  all  copyright  work,  I  have  given  a  number  of 
letters  hitherto  nnprinted,  and  the  story,  unfinished  before, 
is  now  brought  down  to  its  close. 

^y.  a.  c. 

COXIBTOV, 

February.  lOOtt 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I. 
THE  BOY  POET  (1819-1842). 


I.  HIS   ANCESTORS 

II.  THE    FATHER   OF   THE    MAX    (1819-1825) 

in.  PERFERVIDU.M   IXOE.VIUM    (1826-1830)      . 

IV.  MOL'N'T.VI.V-WORSHIP    (1830-1835) 

V.  THE    GEKM    OF    '  MODERN    PAINTERS  '    (1836) 

VI.  A    LON-E-STORY    (1836-1839) 

VII.  -KATA   PHUSIN'   (1837-1838)   . 

VIII.  SIR    ROliER    NEWDIGATE's    PRIZE    (1837-1839) 

I.\.  'THE    BROKEN    CHAIN'    (1840-1841) 

X.  THE   GRADUATE    OF   OXFORD    (1841-1842)       . 


BOOK  II. 
THE  ART  CRITIC  (1842-1860). 

I.  'TURNER    AND   THE    ANCIENTS '    (1842-1844) 

II.  CHRI.STIAN    ART    (1845-1847) 

III.  'THE   SEVEN    LAMPS  '    (1847-1849)      . 

IV.  'STONES   OF    VENICE'    (1849-1851) 
V.  PRE-RAPHAELITISM    (1851-1853) 

VI.     THE    EIHNBURGH    LECTURF.S    (1853-1854) 
VII.     THE    WORKINfl    MEN's    COLLEGE    (1854-1855) 
VIII.     'MODERN    painters'    CONTINUED    (1855-1856) 
IX.     'THE    POLITICAL   ECONOMY    OF    ART'    (1857-1858) 
X.     'MODERN    PAINTEH3'    CONCLUDED   (1858-1860) 


87 
97 
107 
119 
130 
141 
149 
156 
168 
180 


viii  CONTENTS 

BOOK  III. 
HERMIT  AND  HERETIC  (1860-1870). 

CHAPTEB  PAOB 

I.  'UNTO  THIS  last'  (1860-1861)  .  .  .  .189 
n.  'MUJTEBA  PULTERIS'  (1861-1862)  .  .  .198 
HI.    THE   LIMESTONE   ALPS    (1863) 204 

rv.    'SESAME  AND  lilies'  (1864)       ....      210 

V.  'ETHICS    OF   THE    DUST '    (1865)  ....   215 

VI.  '  THE  CKOWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE  '    (1865-1866)  .        222 

vn.  'time  and  tide'  (1867) 234 

vni,  agates,  and  Abbeville  (1868)  ....      246 

rs.  'the  queen  of  the  air'  (1869)  ....  255 

X.  teeona;  and  oxford  (1869-1870)      .        .        .263 

BOOK  IV. 

PROFESSOR  AND  PROPHET  (1870-1899). 

I.   FIRST  oxford  lectures  (1870-1871)     .        .  .  271 

II.   'FORS'  BEGUN  (1871-1872)          ....  284 

III.  OXFORD  TEACHING   (1872-1875)        .          .          .  .296 

IV.  ST.    GEORGE   AND    ST.    MARK    (1875-1877)        .            .  312 
V.    'DEUCALION*  AND  'PROSERPINA*    (1877-1879)  .  327 

VI.    THE   DIVERSIONS    OP   BRANTWOOD    (1879-1880)       .         340 

VII.   'FORs'  RESUMED  (1880-1881)         .        .        .        .353 
VIII.    THE  RECALL  TO  OXFORD   (1882-1883)  .  .        362 

IX.  THE  STORM-CLOUD  (1884-1888)        .        .        .        .374 

X.  DATUR  HORA  QUIETI  (1889-1897)     .     .     .386 

ONE  WORD  MORE 400 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 409 

INDEX 422 


THE    LIFE    AND 
WORK    OF   JOHN    RUSKIN 

BOOK  L 

THE  BOY  POET.    (1819-1842.) 

'  Eat  fern-seed, 
And  peer  beside  us,  and  report,  indeed, 
If  (your  word)  "  genius"  dawned  with  tliro<«i  and  stingt^ 
And  the  whole  fiery  catalogue,  while  springs, 
Sumiuers,  ami  winters  quietly  came  and  went.' 


CHAPTER  t 

HIS    ANCESTORS. 

•And  still  withiu  our  valleys  here 
We  bolil  the  kiuilred  title  dear, 
£veu  when,  perchance,  ita  far-fetched  claiia 
To  Soiitheru  ear  souuds  eiupty  name  ; 
For  course  of  blood,  our  proverbs  deem, 
la  warmer  than  the  mouutain-stream.' 

Scott. 

IF  ori<jin,  if  early  training  and  habits  of  life,  if  tastes,  and 
character,  and  associations,  fix  a  man's  nationality,  then 
Jolin  Rusk  in  must  be  reckoned  a  Scotsmiui.  He  was  born 
in  London,  but  his  family  was  from  Scotland.  lie  was  brouglit 
up  in  Enj^land,  but  the  friends  and  teachers,  the  standards  and 
influences  of  his  e^iriy  life,  were  chiefly  Scottisii.  The  writers 
who  directed  him  into  the  main  lines  of  his  thouj^ht  and 
work  were  Scotsmen — from  Sir  Walter  and  Lord  Lindsay  and 
Principal  Forbes  to  the  master  of  his  later  studies  of  men 
and  the  means  of  life,  Thomas  Carlyle.  The  relij^ious  instinct 
so  conspicuous  in  him  was  a  heritage  from  Scotland  ;  thence  the 
combination  of  shrewd  common-sense  and  romantic  sentiment ; 
the  oscillation  l)etween  levity  and  dij;nity,  from  caustic  jest  to 
tender  earnest ;  the  restlessness,  the  fervour,  the  impetuosity 
— all  these  arc  the  tokens  of  a  Scotsman  of  parts,  and  were 
highly  developed  in  John  Iluskin. 

And,    indeed,    he    received   a   great    impress   of   Scottish 
character  from  old  Galloway,  from  ancestors  whose  names  are 
famous  in  history  as  champions  and  patriots  and  martyrs. 
1-2 


4  IIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

The  strange  Torr  revolutionism  of  '  Fors  Clavi^ra,'  at  once 
monarchical  and  democratic,  loyal  and  radical,  holding  so  close 
to  tradition,  and  vet  so  progressive  in  its  aims ;  the  Ruskinian 
knight-errantry,  his  readiness  to  rush  in  on  the  weaker  side 
with  a  passionate  cry  for  poetical  justice — ^these  find  their 
explanation  as  inheritances  from  men  who  stood  for  the  King 
against  Cromwell,  and  yet  suffered  for  the  Kirk  under  Claver- 
house ;  afterwards,  again,  in  many  an  instance,  accepting  the 
forlorn  hope  of  Jacobitism  as  a  solemn  trust,  or  cherishing 
its  lost  cause  as  a  sacred  memory.  Such  men  as  these,  among 
his  various  ancestors,  most  nearly  anticipate  his  character,  and 
undoubtedly  had  most  influence  in  its  formation.  It  was  from 
Galloway,  too,  that  he  got  the  strain  of  Gaelic  blood,  in 
virtue  of  which  he  became  a  leader  in  that  movement  which 
latter-day  critics  have  named  •  the  recrudescence  of  the  Celt '; 
being,  indeed,  the  central  figure  of  a  group  of  artists  and  poets 
whose  inspiration  we  regard  as  a  sur%-ival  of  Ossianic  nature- 
worship,  Fingalian  romance,  or  Columban  piety. 

But  the  exponent  of  a  national  ideal  is  rarely  pure-bred. 
To  expound  an  ideal,  he  must  be  in  touch  with  the  actual ;  to 
introduce  one  party  to  another  he  must  hold,  so  to  say,  the 
hands  of  each.  It  is  commonlv  remarked  that  notable  men 
are  of  mixed  race ;  and  in  this  case,  as  the  pedigree  shows, 
Celtic  fire  was  fed  with  Norman  strength,  and  tempered  with 
some  infusion  of  English  coolness  from  sailors  of  the  North  Sea, 
In  the  days  of  auld  lang  syne  the  Rhynns  of  Gallowav — • 
that  hammer-headed  promontory  of  Scotland  which  looks 
towards  Belfast  Lough — was  the  home  of  two  great  families, 
the  Agnews  and  the  Adairs.  The  Agnews,  of  Norman  race, 
occupied  the  northern  half,  centring  about  their  island-fortress 
of  Lochnaw,  where  they  became  celebrated  for  a  long  line  of 
hereditary  sheriffs  and  baronets  who  have  played  no  incon- 
siderable part  in  public  affairs.  The  southern  half,  from 
Portpatrick  to  the  Mull  of  Galloway,  was  held  by  the  Adairs, 
originally  Gallgaedhel,  or  Vikings  of  mixed  Celtic  and 
Scandinavian  blood — immigrants  from  Ireland,  according  to 
a  family  tradition,  not  unsupported  by  the  history  of  this 


HIS  ANCESTORS  6 

KA-boan)  in  the  ninth  and  tenth  centuries.  The  Adairs  (or, 
as  formerlv  spelt,  Edreare)  took  their  name  from  £ii;;ur,  sod 
of  Doren^d.  one  of  the  two  Gallowaj  leaders  at  the  Brittle 
of  the  Standard.  Three  hundred  rears  later  Robert  Eil/ear 
— who  does  not  know  his  descendant  and  namesake,  Robin 
Adair  ? — settled  at  Gainoch,  near  the  head  of  Luce  Bav ;  and 
for  another  ^jace  of  300  rears  his  children  kept  the  same 
estate,  in  spite  of  private  feud,  and  ciril  war,  and  religious 
persecution,  of  which  ther  had  more  than  their  share. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  centurk-.  John  Adair, 
the  laird  of  Little  Genoch,  was  married  to  Mart-  Agnew,  a 
near  kinswoman  of  the  celebrated  Sir  Andrew,  whose  laconic 
harangue  to  the  Soots  Fusiliers  at  lX>ttingen  has  bei-ome 
proverbial ;  'My  lads,  ye  see  thcwe  loons  on  yon  hill  there? 
If  re  dinna  kill  them'  they'll  kill  you.'  Alter  the  battle 
George  II.  rode  up.  'So,  Sir  Andrew,'  he  began,  as  the 
Sheriff  sat  stoically  at  his  parade,  'I  hear  the  cuirassiers 
rode  through  your  regiment  to-day.'  'Ay.  please  your 
Majesty,'  the  other  dr}  ly  replied,  '  but  they  didna  gang  back 
again.** 

^^'hat  was  the  exact  relationship  of  Mary  Agnew  to  '  the 
bravest  man  in  the  British  army '  remains  umleiitled.  but 
letters  still  extant  from  the  Laiiy  Agnew  of  the  day  aiklrvT^s 
her  as  '  Dear  Molly,'  and  end.  '  Vour  affei-tiunate  cousin  '  oi 
*  kinswoman.'  Her  son  Thomas  succeeded  his  father  in  1721 
and,  retiring  with  his  captaincy,  settled  on  the  estate.  He 
married  Jean,  daughter  of  Andrew  Ru<s  of  Balsarroch  and 
Balkail,  a  lady  noted  for  her  beauty,  her  wit.  and  her  Latin 
scholarship,  aiid  a  member  of  a  family  which  has  given  many 
distinguistied  men  to  the  army  and  navy.  Among  them 
Admiral  Sir  John  Ross,  the  Arvtic  explorer.  Sir  Hew 
Dalrymple,  and  Field-Marshal  Sir  Hew  Dalrtmple  Ross, 
were  all  her  great-nephews,  and  her  son.  Dr.  John  Adair, 
was  the  man  in  whose  arms  Wolfe  died  at  the  taking  o( 
Quebec  -.  it  is  he  who  is  shown  in  Benjamin  West's  pictut« 
supporting  the  GeneraL 

*  Sir  Aadrev  Agorcw,  *  Hcreditarj  Sk«n&  of  Gailowaj,'  iL  STai 


6  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Dr.  Adair's  sister  Catherine,  the  daughter  of  Thomas  Adair 
and  Jean  Ross,  married  the  Rev.  James  Tweddale,  minister 
of  Glenluce  from  1758  to  1778,  representative  of  an  old 
Covenanting  family,  and  holder  of  the  original  Covenant, 
which  had  been  confided  to  the  care  of  his  great-aunt 
Catherine  by  Baillie  of  Jarviswood  on  his  way  to  execution 
in  the  '  killing  time.'  The  document  was  sold  with  his 
library  at  his  death,  his  children  being  then  under  age,  and 
is  now  in  the  Glasgow  Museum.  One  of  these  children, 
Catherine,  mamed  John  lluskin,  whose  name,  then  of  little 
account,  was  destined  to  become  as  famous,  in  the  person  of 
his  grandson,  £is  any  of  the  heroic  names  with  which  it  was 
thus  connected. 

The  origin  of  the  name  of  Ruskin  is  obscure.  It  has  been 
taken  for  Lowland  Scottish,  a  variant  of  Erskine ;  for  a 
Highland  place-name,  Roskeen ;  for  a  corruption  of  Roger- 
kin  ;  or  even  for  a  \'ulgar  nickname,  Roughskin.  These  are 
mere  guesses,  but  Ruskington,  in  Lincolnshire,  points,  by  a 
well-known  rule  of  place-names,  to  a  tribe  of  Anglian  settlei-s 
called  Rusking,  of  whom  this  village  was  originally  the  tun, 
or  homestead,  as  Pennington  was  the  '  town  "■  of  the  Pennings, 
and  so  forth.  Soon  after  the  dissolution  of  Furness  Abbey, 
Richerde  Ruskyn  and  his  family  were  land-owners  at  Dalton- 
in-Furness.*  Other  Ruskins  and  Ruskens  are  known  in  the 
North  of  England,  and  naturally  also  in  London,  whither  all 
our  tribes  go  up.  One  branch,  however,  and  that  with 
which  we  are  especially  concerned,  settled  in  Edinburgh. 

John  Ruskin — our  subject's  grandfather — when  he  ran 
away  with  Catherine  Tweddale  in  1781,  was  a  handsome 
lad  of  twenty.  His  portrait  as  a  child  proves  his  looks,  and 
he  evidently  had  some  charm  of  character  or  promise  of 
power,  for  the  escapade  did  not  lose  him  the  friendship  of 
the    lady"s  family.     Major   Ross,  her   uncle   and   guardian, 

*  Comtnunicated  by  Mr.  W.  Hutton  Brayshay,  from  the  Record 
Office.  See  also  Dr.  Barber,  'Furness  and  Cartmel  Notes,'  p.  380. 
Daltou  is  within  fourteen  miles  of  Brautwood,  and  was  the  bii  thplace 
»i  Romney,  the  artist 


HIS  ANCESTORS  7 

remained  a  pood  friend  to  the  young  couple.  She  herself 
was  only  sixteen  at  her  marriage — a  bright  and  animated 
brunette,  as  her  miniature  sliows,  in  later  yeare  ripening  to  a 
woman  of  uncommon  stivngth,  with  oKl-fashioned  j)icty  of  a 
robust,  pnictical  type,  and  a  spirit  which  the  trials  of  lier 
after-life — and  they  were  uianv — could  not  subdue.  Her 
husband  set  up  in  the  wine  trade  in  Edinburgh.  For  many 
years  they  liveil  in  the  Old  Town,  then  a  respectable  ncigh- 
bourhootl,  among  a  cultivated  and  well-bre<l  socic^ty,  in  which 
they  moved  as  e»|uals,*  entertaining,  with  others,  such  a  man 
as  Dr.  Thomas  Urown,  the  professor  of  philo.sophy,  a  great 
light  in  his  own  day,  and  still  conspicuous  in  the  constellation 
of  Scotch  metaphysicians. 

ITieir  son,  John  James  Ruskin  (liom  INIay  10,  1785),  was 
sent  to  the  famous  High  School  of  Edinburgh,  under 
Dr.  Ailam,  the  most  renowned  of  Scottish  headma.sters,  and 
there  he  received  the  sound  old-fashioned  classical  educa- 
tion. Hefore  he  was  sixteen,  his  sister  Je.ssie  was  already 
married  at  Perth  to  Peter  llicharilson,  a  tanner  living  at 
Briilge  End,  by  the  Tay ;  and  so  his  cousin,  Margaret  Cox, 
was  sent  for  to  fill  the  vacant  place. 

She  was  a  daughter  of  old  Mr.  Ruskin's  sister,  who  had 
marrietl  a  CapUiin  Cox,  sailing  from  Yarmouth  for  the 
herring  fishery.  lie  had  died  in  1789,  or  thereabouts,  from 
the  results  of  an  accident  while  riding  homewards  to  his 
family  after  one  of  his  voyages,  and  his  widow  maintained 
herself  in  comfort  by  keeping  the  olil  Kings  Head  Inn  at 
Croyilon  Market-place,  and  brought  U|)  her  two  daughters 
with  the  best  available  education.  The  younger  one  married 
another  Mr.  Richardson,  a  baker  at  Croydon,  so  that,  by 
an  odd  coincidence,  there  were  two  families  of  Richardsons, 

♦  '  I  had  aluo  a  father  more  magnificent  ia  his  expemlitnre  than 
mindful  of  his  family;  so  ioiliscriiuiDate  and  bouudleas  in  his  hos- 
pitilitiea  that,  when  the  inviteil  guesU  arrived,  he  would  sometimes 
have  tu  iui{uire  their  names.  Mr  muther,  too,  had  a  heart  large  enough 
to  embrace  the  whole  human  r.ice,  but  with  uiiiverxal  lore  combined 
peculiar  prudence.' — J.  J.  Rodkia  to  Miss  Mitford,  Jauuary  5,  1852. 


LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKLV 


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HIS  ANCESTORS  9 

nnconncctctl  with  one  another  except  tlirough  their  relation- 
ship to  the  lluskins. 

Alarjjaret,  the  elder  daughter,  who  came  to  keep  liousc  for 
her  uncle  in  Edinburgh,  was  then  nearly  twenty  years  of  age. 
She  had  been  the  model  pupil  at  her  Croydon  day-school ; 
tall  and  handsome,  pious  and  pi-actical,  she  was  just  the  girl 
to  become  the  conliilantc  and  adviser  of  her  dark-eyed,  active, 
and  romantic  young  cousin — his  guardian  angel. 

Some  time  before  the  beginning  of  1807,  John  James, 
having  tinishcd  his  education  at  the  High  School,  went  to 
London,  where  a  place  had  been  found  for  him  by  his  uncle's 
brother-in-law,  Mr.  MacTaggart.  He  was  followeil  by  a  kind 
letter  from  Ur.  Thomas  Brown,  who  advised  him  to  keep  up 
his  Latin,  and  to  study  political  economy,  for  the  Professor 
looked  upon  him  as  a  young  man  of  unusual  promise  and 
power.  During  some  two  ycai-s,  he  worked  iis  a  clerk  m  the 
house  of  Sir  William  Gordon,  Murphy  antl  Co.,  where  he 
niaile  fnends,  and  laid  the  foundation  of  his  jirosperity  ;  for 
along  with  him  at  the  office  there  was  a  Mr.  IVter  Domecq, 
owner  of  the  Sjiauish  vinevards  of  Machaniudo,  learning  the 
conunercial  part  of  his  business  in  London,  the  headquarters 
of  the  sherry  trade.  He  adniircjl  his  fellow-clerk's  capacity 
so  much  as  to  offer  him  the  London  agency  of  his  family 
busiiR>ss.  Mr.  MacTaggart  found  the  cajiital  in  consideration 
of  their  taking  his  relative,  Mr.  Telforil,  into  the  concern. 
Antl  so  they  entered  into  partnership,  about  1809,  as 
lluskin,  Telford  and  Domecq  :  Domecq  contributing  the 
siierry,  Mr.  Ilcury  Telford  the  capital,  and  lluskin  the 
brains. 

How  he  came  by  his  business  capacity  may  be  understood 
•^and  in  some  measure,  perhaps,  how  his  son  came  by  his 
flexible  anil  forcible  style — from  a  letter  of  Mrs.  Catherine 
Uuskin,  written  about  this  time ;  in  which,  moreover,  there 
are  a  few  details  of  family  circumstances  and  character,  not 
without  interest.  John  James  Ku>kin  had  been  protesting 
that  he  was  never  going  to  marry,  but  meant  to  devote  him- 
self tc  his  mother;  she  rej)licd  : 


10  LEFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

*.  .  .  But  my  son  aux  old  Batchelor — ^believe  me  my  beloved 
Child  I  feel  the  full  force  and  value  of  that  affection  that 
could  prompt  to  such  a  plan — dear  as  your  society  is  to  me  it 
would  then  become  the  misery  of  my  existence — could  I  see 
my  Child  so  formed  for  domestick  happiness  deprived  of  every 
blessing  on  my  account.  No  my  D''  John  I  do  not  know  a 
more  unhappy  being  than  an  old  Batchelor  .  .  .  may  God 
preserve  my  Child  from  realizing  the  dreary  picture — as  soon 
as  you  can  keep  a  Wife  you  must  Marry  with  all  possible 
speed — that  is  as  soon  as  you  find  a  very  Amiable  woman. 
She  must  be  a  good  daughter  and  fond  of  Domestick  life — 
and  pious,  without  ostentation,  for  remember  no  Woman 
without  the  fear  of  God,  can  either  make  a  good  Wife  or  a 
good  Mother — freethinking  INIen  are  shocking  to  nature,  but 
from  an  Infidel  Woman  Good  Lord  deliver  us.  I  have 
thought  more  of  it  than  you  have  done — for  I  have  two  or 
three  presents  carefully  [laid]  by  for  her,  and  I  have  also 
been  so  foresightly  as  to  pui-chase  two  Dutch  toys  for  your 
Children  in  case  you  might  marry  before  we  had  free  inter- 
course with  that  country.  .  .  .  Who  can  say  what  I  can  say 
'here  is  my  Son — a  hansome  accomplished  young  man  of  three 
and  twenty — he  will  not  Marry  that  he  may  take  care  of  his 
Mother — here  is  my  D''  JMargaret,  hansome  Amiable  and 
good  and  she  would  not  leave  her  Jnt  (I  mean  Aunt)  for  any 
Man  on  Earth.'  Ah  My  Dear  and  valuable  children,  dear  is 
yom-  affection  to  my  heart,  but  I  will  never  make  so  base  a 
use  of  it.  I  entreat  my  D""  John  that  you  will  not  give  your- 
self one  moment's  uneasiness  about  me — I  will  at  all  events 
have  ^86  a  year  for  life  that  your  Father  cannot  deprive  me 
of,  and  tho'  I  could  not  live  very  splendidly  in  a  Town  on 
this,  yet  with  a  neat  little  House  and  Garden  in  the  country, 
it  would  afford  all  the  means  of  life  in  fullness  to  IMeggy 
myself  and  our  servant.  You  forget,  my  D''  how  much  a 
woman  can  do  without  in  domestick  affairs  to  save  Money — a 
Woman  that  has  any  management  at  all  can  live  with  more 
comfort  on  =£'50  a  year  than  a  INIan  could  do  on  two  hundred. 
There  was  a  year  of  my  life  that  I  maintained  myself  and 
two  children  on  twenty  pound,  the  bread  too  was  1/2  th» 


HIS  ANCESTORS  11 

loftve  that  year :  we  did  not  indeed  live  very  sumptuously  nor 
bIiiiII  I  SUV  our  stren!i;th  improveil  much  but  I  did  not  contract 
one  fartliinj^  of  debt  ami  that  to  me  supplyed  the  want  of 
luxuries.  Now  my  1)"^  Joiui  let  me  never  hear  a  fear  expressed 
on  my  account;  tiicit  is  no  fear  of  me;  make  youreclf  happy 
and  all  will  be  well,  and  for  God  sake  my  beloved  Boy  take 
care  of  your  health,  tnke  a  good  drink  of  porter  to  dinner 
and  supper  and  a  little  Wine  now  and  then,  and  tell  me 
particularly  about  y  new  Lodj^inrrs,'  etc. 

lie  Rtunied  home  to  Ediid)urgh  on  a  visit,  and  arranged 
a  marriage  with  his  cousin  Margaret,  if  she  would  wait  for 
him  until  he  was  safely  established;  and  then  he  set  to  work 
at  the  responsibilities  of  creating  a  new  business.  It  was  a 
severer  task  than  he  hail  anticipated,  for  his  father's  health 
and  atlaii-s,  as  the  above  letter  hints,  had  both  gone  wrong ; 
he  left  Edinburgh  and  settled  at  Uower's  Well,  Perth,  ended 
unha|)pily,  anil  left  a  load  of  debt  behind  him,  which  the  son, 
sensitive  to  the  family  honour,  undertook  to  pay  before  laying 
by  a  penny  for  himself.  It  took  nine  years  of  assiduous 
labour  and  economy.  He  worked  the  business  entirely  by 
himself.  The  various  departments  that  most  men  entrust  to 
others  he  filled  in  pei-son.  He  managed  the  correspondence, 
he  travellctl  for  ordei-s,  he  arrangeil  the  impoibition,  he 
directed  the  growers  out  in  J^pain,  and  gratlually  built  up  a 
great  business,  paid  oft"  his  father's  creditors,  and  secured  his 
own  competence. 

This  was  not  done  without  sacrifice  of  health,  which  he 
never  recoveretl,  nor  without  forming  habits  of  over-anxiety 
and  toilsome  minuteness  which  hi^teil  his  life  long.  Hut  his 
business  cares  were  relieved  by  cultured  tiustes.  He  loved  art, 
painteil  in  water-colours  in  the  old  style,  anil  knew  a  good 
picture  when  he  saw  it.  He  lovetl  literature,  and  reatl  aloud 
finely  all  the  old  standard  authors,  though  he  was  not  too 
old-fashionetl  to  atlmire  'Pickwick'  and  the  '  Noctes  Ambro- 
Bian:p'  when  they  apjjoai-ed.  He  loved  the  scenery  and 
architecture  among  which  he  hail  travelletl  in  Scotland  and 
S|min  ;  but  he  could  find  interest  in  almost  any  place  and 
any  subject ;  an  alert  man,  in  whom  practical  judgment  was 


12  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

joined  to  a  romantic  temperament,  strong  feelings  and 
opinions  to  extended  sympathies.  His  letters,  of  which  there 
are  many  preserved,  bear  witness  to  his  character,  taste,  and 
intellect,  curiously  anticipating,  on  some  points,  those  of  his 
son.  His  portraits  by  Coi)ley  and  Northcote  give  the  idea  of 
an  expressive  face,  sensitive,  refined,  every  featui-e  a  gentle- 
man's. 

So,  after  those  nine  years  of  work  and  waiting,  he  went  to 
Perth  to  claim  his  cousin''s  hand.  She  was  for  further  delay ; 
but  with  the  minister's  lielp  he  persuaded  her  one  evening 
into  a  prompt  marriage  in  the  Scotch  fashion,  drove  oft'  with 
her  next  morning  to  Edinburgh,  and  on  to  the  home  he  had 
prepared  in  London  at  54,  Hunter  Street,  Brunswick  Square 
(February  27,  1818). 

The  heroine  of  this  little  drama  was  no  ordinary  bride. 
At  Edinburgh  she  had  found  herself,  though  well  brought 
up  for  Croydon,  inferior  to  the  society  of  the  Modern  Athens. 
As  the  affianced  of  a  man  of  ability,  she  felt  it  her  duty  to 
make  herself  his  match  in  mental  culture,  as  she  was  already 
in  her  own  department  of  practical  matters.  Under  Dr. 
Brown's  direction,  and  stimulated  by  his  notice,  she  soon 
became — not  a  blue-stocking — but  well-read,  well-informed 
above  the  average.  She  was  one  of  those  persons,  too  rarely 
met  with,  who  set  themselves  a  very  high  standard,  and  re- 
solve to  drag  both  themselves  and  their  neighbours  up  to  it. 
But,  as  the  process  is  difficult,  so  it  is  disappointing.  People 
became  rather  shy  of  Mrs.  Ruskin,  and  she  of  them,  so  that 
her  life  was  solitary  and  her  houseliold  quiet.  It  was  not 
from  merely  narrow  Puritanism  that  she  made  so  few  friends ; 
her  morality  and  her  piety,  strict  as  they  were  within  their 
own  lines,  permitted  her  most  of  the  enjoyments  and  amuse- 
ments of  life  ;  still  less  was  there  any  cynicism  or  misanthropy. 
But  she  devoted  herself  to  her  husband  and  son.  She  was 
too  proud  to  court  those  above  her  in  workliy  rank,  and  she 
was  not  easily  ajiproachetl  except  by  people  fully  ecjual  to  her 
in  strength  of  character,  of  whom  there  could  never  be  many. 
The  few  who  made  their  way  to  her  friendship  found  her  » 
true  and  valuable  friend. 


ciiAn'ER  n. 

THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN.    (1819-1825.) 

*  While  yet  a  child,  and  long  before  his  time, 
UmI  he  i)erceived  the  presence  and  the  power 
Of  greatueas.' 

Wordsworth. 

INTO  tin's  family  Jolin  Riiskin  was  born  on  Febniary  8, 
ISli),  at  half-|)nst  seven  in  the  mornin>f.  He  was  baptized 
on  the  twentieth  by  the  llev.  .Mr.  Uoyd. 

It  niij;lit  l>e,  if  we  liad  fuller  information  about  the  pcr- 
Bonaj;os  of  history,  that  we  could  trace  in  ail  of  them  the 
inHuences  of  heix-dity  and  early  training  as  distinctly  and  as 
coniijictely  as  in  his  case.  But  the  birth  and  brcetlin;;  of 
most  writers  and  artists  are,  in  essential  |)oints,  comparatively 
undetailed.  We  have  anecdotes  about  them;  we  hear  of 
Hieir  sudden  appearance,  their  stru^lcs,  their  adventures; 
l)ut  we  cannot  trace  the  development,  step  by  step,  of  their 
genius.  We  see  the  result ;  but  the  process  is  like  the  <;rowth 
of  a  Jonah's  f^ounl,  something  that  seems  to  have  sprung  up 
in  the  darknes,s,  whence  or  how  we  can  only  surmise.  And 
w,  not  tlic  least  inteix-sting  fact  about  this  life  is  the  circuin- 
itnntiality  with  which  its  early  pail  is  known.  We  have  not 
aniy  the  aut(.bio;;iMphy,  but  the  recoileitions  of  fiienils,  anti, 
must  important  of  all,  the  actual  relics  of  the  very  time,  in 
}ld  l('ttei><  and  note-hooks  and  documents,  from  which  the 
rhilils  mental  growth  can  be  traced  year  by  year. 

The  first  account  of  him  in  writing  is  in  a  letter  from  his 
mother  when    he   was   lix   weeks   old.     She  chiouicles — not 


14  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

without  a  touch  of  superstition — the  breaking  of  a  looking- 
glass,  and  continues:  'John  grows  finely;  he  is  just  now  on 
my  knees  sleeping  and  looking  so  sweetly ;  I  hope  I  shall  not 
get  proud  of  him.'  He  was  a  fine  healthy  baby,  and  at  fout 
months  was  '  beginning  to  give  more  decided  proofs  that  he 
knows  what  he  wants,  and  will  have  it  if  crying  and  passion 
will  get  it.'  At  a  year  his  mother  resolves  that  '  tliis  will  be 
cured  by  a  good  whipping  when  he  can  undei-stand  what  it 
is,'  and  we  know  that  she  carried  out  her  Spartan  resolve. 

This,  and  the  story  in  '  Arachne,'  how  she  let  him  touch 
the  tea-kettle ;  and  the  reminiscences  in  '  Prsterita '  of  play- 
things locked  up,  and  a  lone  little  boy  staring  at  the 
water-cart  and  the  pattern  on  the  carpet — all  these  give  a 
gloomy  impression  of  his  mother,  against  which  we  must 
set  the  proofs  of  aflfection  and  kindliness  shown  in  her 
coiTespondence. 

In  these  we  can  see  her  anxiously  nursing  him  through 
childish  ailments,  taking  him  out  for  his  daily  walk  to 
Duppas  Hill  with  a  captain's  biscuit  in  her  muff,  for  fear  he 
should  be  hungry  by  the  way  ;  we  hear  her  teaching  him  his 
first  lessons,  with  astonishment  at  his  wonderful  memory, 
and  glorying  with  Nui'se  Anne  over  his  behaviour  in  church ; 
and  all  these  things  she  retails  in  gossiping  letters  to 
her  husband,  while  Mr.  Richard  Gray  gives  two-year-old 
John  'his  first  lesson  on  the  flute,  both  sitting  on  the 
drawing-room  floor,  very  deeply  engaged.'  '  I  am  sure,'  she 
says,  '  there  is  no  other  love,  no  other  feeling,  like  a  mother's 
towards  her  first  boy  when  she  loves  his  father';  and  her 
pride  in  his  looks,  and  precocity,  and  docility—'  I  never  met 
with  a  child  of  his  age  so  sensible  to  praise  or  blame ' — found 
a  justification  in  his  passionate  devotion  to  the  man  who  was 
so  dear  to  them  both. 

Though  he  was  bom  in  the  thick  of  London,  he  was  not 
City-bred.  His  love  for  landscape  was  not  the  result  of  a 
late  discovery  of  it,  and  of  a  Cockney's  contrast  of  wild 
nature  with  streets  and  squares.  His  first  three  summers 
were  spent  in  lodgings  in  Hampstead  or  Dulwich,  then  '  the 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN  15 

roiintrv.'  So  early  as  his  fourth  summer  he  was  taken  to 
PcDtliind  l)V  sea  to  stay  with  his  aunt  Jessie,  Mrs.  Richardson 
of  IVrth.  There  he  fmirul  cousins  to  play  with,  especially 
one  little  Jessie,  of  nearly  his  own  njje ;  he  found  a  river  with 
dwp  swirling  pools,  tiiat  impressed  him  more  than  the  sea, 
anil  he  found  the  mountains,  t'ominjx  home  in  the  autumn, 
he  .sat  for  his  full-len<i;th  portrait  to  James  Northcote,  R.A., 
and  beinfj  asked  what  he  would  choose  for  backj;round,  he 
replied,  '  Blue  hills.' 

Northcote  had  painted  Mr.  and  IVIrs.  Ruskin,  and,  as  they 
were  fond  of  artistic  company,  remained  their  friend.  A 
certain  frienilship,  too,  was  struck  up  between  the  old 
Academician,  then  in  his  seventy-seventh  year,  the  acknow- 
ledjjetl  cvnic  and  sjitirist,  and  the  little  wi.se  hoy  who  asked 
shrewd  questions,  and  could  sit  still  to  be  painted ;  who, 
moreover,  hail  a  face  worth  painting,  not  unlike  the  model 
from  whom  Northcote's  master,  the  great  Sir  Joshua,  had 
painted  his  famous  cherubs.  The  painter  asked  him  to  come 
again,  and  sit  as  the  hero  of  a  fancy  picture,  bought  at  the 
Academy  by  the  flattered  parents,  relegated  since  to  the  out- 
house at  Bnintwood.  There  is  a  grove,  a  flock  of  toy  sheep, 
draperv  in  the  granil  style,  a  mahogany  Satyr  taking  a  thoiTi 
out  of  the  little  jiink  foot  of  a  conventional  nudity — poor 
survivals  of  the  Titianesque.  But  the  head  is  an  obvious 
portrait,  and  a  happy  one;  far  more  like  the  real  boy,  so 
tradition  says,  thim  the  generalized  chubbiness  of  the  com- 
missioned picture. 

In  the  next  year  (1823)  they  quittetl  the  town  for  a 
•uburhan  home.  The  spot  they  chose  was  in  rural  Dulwich, 
on  Heme  Hill,  a  long  ollshoot  of  the  Surrey  downs;  low, 
and  yet  connnanding  gieen  fields  and  scattcretl  houses  in  the 
fonground,  with  rich  undulating  country  to  the  south,  and 
looking  across  London  toward  Windsor  and  Hanow.  It  is 
all  built  up  now  ;  but  their  house  (the  present  .No.  28)  must 
have  been  lu.  secludeil  as  any  in  a  country  village.  The  suburbs 
tcrrc,  of  course,  once  countni-  villages,  and  as  pleasant  in  their 
old-fashioned  comfort.     Theae  were  ample  garileus  front  and 


16  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

rear,  well  storked  with  fr'iit  and  flowers — quite  an  Eden  for 
a  little  boy,  and  all  the  more  that  the  fruit  of  it  was  for- 
bidden. It  was  here  that  all  his  years  of  youth  were  spent. 
Hero,  under  his  parents'  roof,  he  wrote  his  earlier  works,  as 
far  as  vol.  i.  of  '  Modern  Paintei-s.'  To  the  adjoining  house, 
as  his  own  separate  home,  he  returned  for  a  period  of  his 
middle  life ;  and  in  the  old  home,  handed  over  to  his  adopted 
daughter,  he  still  used  to  find  his  own  rooms  ready  when  he 
cared  to  visit  London. 

So  he  was  brought  up  almost  as  a  country  boy,  though 
near  enough  to  town  to  get  the  benefit  of  it,  and  far  enough 
from  the  more  exciting  scenes  of  landscape  nature  to  find 
thera  ever  fresh,  when  summer  aiter  summer  he  revisited  the 
river  scenery  of  the  West  or  the  mountains  of  the  North. 
For  by  a  neat  arrangement,  and  one  fortunate  for  his  educa- 
tion, the  summer  tours  were  continued  yearly.  Mr.  John 
James  Ruskin  still  travelled  for  the  business,  then  greatly 
extending.  'Strange,'  he  writes  on  one  occasion,  'that 
\\'^atson  [his  right-hand  man]  went  this  journey  without 
getting  one  order,  and  everyone  gives  me  an  order  directly.' 
In  return  for  these  services  to  the  firm,  Mr.  Telford,  the 
capitalist  partner,  took  the  vacant  chair  at  the  office,  and 
even  lent  his  carriage  for  the  journeys.  There  was  room  for 
two,  so  Mrs.  lluskin  accompanied  her  husband,  whose  in- 
different health  gave  her  and  his  friends  constant  anxiety 
during  long  separations.  And  the  boy  could  easily  be  packed 
in,  sitting  on  his  little  portmanteau,  and  playing  hoi-ses  with 
his  fathers  knees;  the  nurse  riding  on  the  dickey  behind. 

They  started  usually  after  the  great  family  anniversary,  the 
father's  birthday,  on  May  10,  and  journeyed  by  easy  stages 
through  the  South  of  England,  working  up  the  west  to  the 
north,  and  then  home  by  the  east-central  route,  zigzagging 
fiom  one  provincial  town  to  another,  calling  at  the  great, 
country  seats,  to  leave  no  customer  or  possible  customer 
unvisited ;  and  in  the  intervals  of  business  seeing  all  the 
sights  of  the  places  they  passed  through — colleges  and 
churches,  galleries  and  parks,  ruins,  castles,  paves,  lakes,  and 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN  17 

monntnins — and  sceinjj  them  all,  not  listlessly,  but  with  keen 
iiitiTcst,  notin<;  evervtliinjj,  inquiring  for  local  information, 
looking  up  hooks  of  rcferenee,  setting  ilown  the  results,  as  if 
they  had  been  meaning  to  write  a  guiiie-book  and  gazetteer 
of  Great  Britain.  7'/«7/,  I  say,  diil  ail  this,  for  as  soon  as 
the  boy  could  write,  lie  was  only  imitating  his  father  in 
keeping  his  little  journal  of  the  touis,  so  that  all  he  learned 
stayed  by  him,  and  the  habit  of  descrij)tive  writing  was 
formcil. 

We  could  follow  out  the  tourists  in  detail  if  it  were  worth 
while,  but  it  must  sullice  here  to  notice  the  points  of  interest 
which  influenced  and  impressed  the  boy's  mind,  and  left  a  mark 
upon  his  work. 

In  1823  they  seem  to  have  travelled  only  through  the 
south  and  south-west ;  in  lH2i  they  puslied  north  to  the 
liikes,  stayed  awhile  at  Keswick,  and  while  the  father  went 
about  his  business,  the  chilil  was  rambling  with  his  nurse  on 
Friar's  Crag,  among  the  steep  rock  and  gnarled  roots,  which 
suggested,  even  at  that  age,  the  feelings  expressed  in  one  of 
the  notable  passages  in  '  Modern  Painters.'  Thence  they 
went  on  to  Scotland,  anil  revisited  their  relatives  at  Perth. 
In  \825  they  took  a  more  extended  tour,  and  spent  a  few 
wiH-'ks  in  Paris,  partly  for  the  festivities  at  the  coronation  of 
CliHrles  X.,  partly  for  business  conference  with  Mr.  Domecq, 
who  had  just  been  appointeil  wine-merchant  to  the  King  of 
Spain.  Thence  they  went  to  Brussels  and  the  field  of 
Waterloo,  of  greater  interest  than  the  sights  of  Paris  to  six- 
vear-olil  John,  who  o'ten  during  his  boyhood  celebrated  the 
battle,  and  the  heroes  of  the  battle,  in  verse. 

These  exciteuK'nts  of  travel  alternated  with  the  quietest 
home-keeping,  employed  in  uneventful  study,  not  stimulated 
by  competition,  nor  sweetened  by  any  of  those  educational 
sugar-plums  with  which  the  modern  child's  path  is  so  thickly 
Birewn.  And  yet  his  les>()ns  were  followed  with  steadiness 
anil  interest,  for  he  had  aheaily  begun  his  life's  work,  in  the 
•cnse  that  his  later  writing  and  teaching  are  demonstrably 
continuous  with  1  is  earliest  interests  and  efforts.  He  haa 
i 


18  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

been  laughed  at  for  seeing  in  a  copy  of  verses  written  at  seven 
the  germ  of  his  political  economy,  and  what  not.  But  it  is 
true  that  the  expressions  there  used  are  expressions  of  the 
very  same  feeling  and  the  same  habits  of  mind  that  gradually 
developed  into  the  thoughts  he  laid  before  the  world  ;  they 
are  the  initial  segments  of  lines  which,  drawn  boldly  out,  are 
recognised  as  his  own  lines  ;  and  even  from  these  early  indica- 
tions we  now,  looking  back,  can  see  the  man. 

Before  he  was  quite  three  he  used  to  climb  into  a  chair — 
the  chair  that  all  his  friends  have  seen  him  sitting  in  of 
evenings — and  preach.  Tliere  is  nothing  so  uncommon  in 
that.  Of  Robert  Browning,  his  neighbour  and  seven-years- 
older  contemporary,  the  same  tale  is  told.  But  while  the 
incident  that  marks  the  baby  Browning  is  the  aside,  a  propos 
of  a  whimpering  sister,  '  Pew-opener,  remove  that  child,'  the 
baby  Ruskin  is  seen  in  his  sermon  .  '  People,  be  dood.  If 
you  are  dood,  Dod  will  love  you  ;  if  you  are  not  dood,  Dod 
will  not  love  you.     People,  be  dood.' 

At  the  age  of  four  he  had  began  to  read  and  write,  refusing 
to  be  taught  in  the  orthodox  way — this  is  so  accurately 
characteristic — by  syllabic  spelling  and  copy-book  pothooks. 
He  preferred  to  find  a  method  out  for  himself,  and  he  found 
out  how  to  read  whole  words  at  a  time  by  the  look  of  them, 
and  to  write  in  vertical  characters  like  book-print,  just  as  the 
latest  improved  theories  of  education  suggest.  His  first  letter 
may  be  quoted  as  illustrating  his  own  account  of  his  child- 
hood, and  as  proving  how  entirely  Scotch  was  the  atmosphere 
in  which  he  was  brought  up.  The  postmark  gives  the  date 
March  15,  1823.  Mrs.  Ruskin  premises  that  John  was 
scribbling  on  a  paper  from  which  he  proceeded  to  read  wliat 
she  writes  down  (I  omit  certain  details  about  the  whip) : 

'  My  dear  Papa, 

'  I  love  you.  I  have  got  new  things :  Waterloo 
Bridge — Aunt  Bridget  brought  me  it.  John  and  Aunt 
helped  to  put  it  up,  but  the  pillars  they  did  not  put 
right,  upside  down.     Instead  of  a  book  bruig  me  a  whip, 


THE  FATHEll  OF  THE  MAN  19 

coloured  red  and  black.  .  .  .  To-morrow  is  Sabbath.  Tuesday 
I  go  to  Croydon.  I  am  going  to  take  my  boats  and  my  ship 
to  Croydon.  I'll  sail  them  on  the  pond  near  the  bum  which 
the  bridge  is  over.  I  will  be  very  glad  to  see  my  cousins.  I 
WHS  very  happy  when  I  saw  Aunt  come  from  Croydon.  I 
love  Mrs.  Gray  and  I  love  Mr.  Gray.  I  would  like  you  to 
come  home,  and  mv  kiss  antl  my  love. 

'  [First  autograph  in  straggling  capitals]  JOHN  RUSKIN.' 

AVhcn  once  he  couUl  read,  thencefonvard  his  mother  gave 
him  regular  morning  lessons,  in  Bible-reading  and  in  reciting 
the  Scotch  paraphni.ses  of  the  Psalms  and  other  verse,  which 
for  his  gootl  memory  was  an  easy  task.  He  made  rhymes 
befoi-e  he  could  write  them,  of  coui-se. 

At  five  he  was  a  bookworm,  and  the  books  he  read  fixed 
him  in  certain  grooves  of  thought,  or,  rather,  say  they  were 
chosen  as  favourites  from  an  especial  interest  in  their  subjects 
— an  interest  which  arose  from  his  character  of  mind,  and 
displayed  it.  But  with  all  this  precocity,  he  was  no  milksop 
or  weakling;  he  was  a  bright,  active  lad,  full  of  fun  and 
pranks,  not  without  companions,  though  solitary  when  at 
home,  and  kept  precisely,  in  the  hojx:  of  guarding  him  from 
every  danger.  He  was  so  little  afraid  of  animals — a  great 
test  of  a  child's  nerves — that  about  this  time  he  must  needs 
meddle  with  their  fierce  Newfoundland  dog  Lion,  which  bit 
him  in  the  mouth,  and  spoiled  his  looks.  Another  time  he 
showed  some  aildix-ss  in  extricating  himself  from  the  water- 
butt — a  common  child-trap.  He  did  not  fear  ghosta  or 
thunihx  ;  instead  of  that,  his  early-developed  landscape  feeling 
showed  it.self  in  dread  of  foxglove  dells  and  dark  pools 
of  water,  as  in  the  popular  Italian  dream -presage,  in  coiling 
roots  of  trees — things  that  to  the  average  fancy  have  no 
significance  whatever. 

At  seven  he  began  to  imitate  the  books  he  was  reading,  to 

write  l)ooks  himself.      He  hmi  found  out   how  to  print,  as 

children   do ;  and  it  was  his  ambition  to  make  real  books, 

with  title-pages  and  illustrations,  not  only  books,  inileed,  but 

v!-2 


20  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

!>ets  of  volumes,  a  complete  library  of  his  whole  works. 
About  these  there  are  two  prophetic  circumstances,  the  one 
pointing  to  his  habit  of  bringing  out  a  work,  not  all  at  once, 
but  in  successive  parts,  at  intervals,  perhaps,  of  'olympiads,"' 
as  he  once  said  ;  and  the  other  to  his  unfortunate  tendency  to 
find  himself  unable  to  complete  his  enterprises,  to  let  one 
subject  be  crowded  out  by  others,  and  to  drop  it  in  the 
forlorn  hope  of  resuming  it  at  the  more  convenient  season 
which  is  so  long  in  coming.  So  that  there  is  hardly  a  title  of 
his  which  stands  before  a  properly-finished  work.  Of  the 
'Seven  Lamps''  he  writes  that  he  had  difficulty  in  preventing 
them  from  becoming  eight;  'Modern  Paintere'  is  rather  a 
series  of  treatises  than  a  book  ;  '  P'ors '  is  a  bundle  of  letters, 
and  so  is  'Time  and  Tide';  other  works  are  only  collections 
of  lectures  or  detached  essays  ;  of  hardly  any  can  it  be  said 
that  it  is  carried  out  according  to  a  studied  programme.  In 
a  letter  of  Alarch  4,  1829,  his  mother  says  to  his  father .  '  If 
you  think  of  writing  John,  would  you  impress  on  him  the 
propriety  of  not  beginning  too  eagerly  and  becoming  careless 
towards  the  end  of  his  iX'o;'A"*,  as  he  calls  them  ?  I  think  in 
a  letter  from  you  it  would  have  great  weight.  He  is  never 
idle,  and  he  is  even  uncommonly  persevering  for  a  child  of 
his  age ;  but  he  often  spoils  a  good  beginning  by  not 
taking  the  trouble  to  think,  and  concluding  in  a  hurry.' 

The  first  of  these  sets  was  imitated  in  stvie  from  ^liss 
Edgeworth;  he  called  it,  'Harry  and  Lucy  Concluded;  or. 
Early  Lessons.'  Didactic  he  was  from  the  beginning.  It 
was  to  be  in  four  volumes,  uniform  in  red  leather,  with 
proper  title,  frontispiece,  and  '  copper-plates,'  '  printed  and 
composed  by  a  little  boy,  and  also  drawn.'  It  was  begun  in 
1826,  and  continued  at  intervals  until  1829.  It  was  all  done 
laboriously  in  imitation  of  print,  and,  to  complete  the  illusion, 
contained  a  page  of  errata — a  capital  touch  of  infantile 
realism.  This  gi-eat  work  was,  of  com-se,  never  completed, 
though  he  laboured  thi-ough  three  volumes ;  but  when 
he  tired  of  it,  he  would  turn  his  book  upside  down, 
and  begin  at  the  other  end  with  other  mattere  ;  so  that  the 


THE  FATHER  OF  THE  MAN  21 

te(\  books  contain  all  sorts  of  notes  on  his  minerals  and 
tnivfls,  reports  of  sermons,  antl  misi-ellaneoiis  infornrition, 
besides  their  professe;!  contents ;  in  this  respect  also  being 
verv  like  his  later  works. 

His  '  Harry  and  Lucv'  is  niiiniy  a  dramati/eil  account  of 
t'urs,  himself  bein-^  Hnrrv.  with  an  inia.rinary  sister,  studied 
fmm  Jessie  of  IVrth  or  Uri<i^et  of  Croydon,  for  he  had 
nobody  then  to  net  pernmnently  in  that  capacity,  as 
his  cousin  Mary  did  afterwartls.  llie  mornli/iiif^  mamma 
and  literary  papa  represent  his  parents  to  the  life.  Beside 
the  tours,  we  read  of  white  rabbits  and  silkworms,  air-|)uinps 
and  fireworks  ;  the  scrapes  of  a  savant  in  pinafoi-es  in  quest  of 
general  information,  from  hydraulics,  pneumatics,  acoustics, 
electricity,  astronomy,  mineralo;;y,  to  boat-buiidiiijj,  entjineer- 
inp,  and  riiidlcs.  Muih.  of  coui-se,  is  ideal,  as  where  IlaiTy, 
anticipating — shall  we  sjiy  ? — a  later  enterprise  at  Coniston, 
constructs  a  great  mid  globe,  'and  when  his  inainina  and 
papa  saw  this,  whenever  they  were  at  a  loss  for  the  situation 
of  any  country,  they  went  to  Harry's  globe  for  satisfaction,'  or 
when  he  experiments  with  a  well-ap|>()intcd  laboratory  for  the 
iLstonishnient  of  Lucy.  But  the  description  of  a  week  at 
HiLstings  in  the  spring  of  18!26  is  probably  a  bit  of  history, 
and  told  with  lively  artlessness. 

There  you  have  our  author  ready  made,  with  his  ever-fresh 
interest  in  everything,  and  all-attempting  eagerness,  out  of 
wliich  the  first  thing  that  crystallizes  into  any  definite  shape 
U  the  verse-writing. 


T 


CHAFrER  UL 

PERFERVIDUM  INGENIUM.    (1826-1830.) 

'Aprfes,  en  tel  train  d'estude  le  mist  qu'il  ne  perdoit  heiires  quel- 
eonques  du  jour ;  ainsi  tout  son  temps  consommoit  en  lettrea.' — 
Gai-gantua. 

HE  first  dated  '  poem '  was  written  a  month  before  little 

John  Ruskin  reached  the  age  of  seven.     It  is  a  tale  of 

a  mouse,  in  seven  octosyllabic  couplets,  '  The  Needless 

Alarm,'  remarkable   only  for  an  unexpected   correctness  in 

rhyme,  rhythm,  and  reason. 

His  early  verse,  like  his  early  prose,  owes  much  to  the 
summer  tours.  Tlie  journey  to  Scotland  of  18^26  suggested 
two  poems,  of  which  one  is  really  interesting  for  its  sustained 
sequence  of  thought — the  last  thing'  you  ask  from  a  child — 
and  the  final  stanza  has  a  glimpse  of  wild  imagery  of  the  in- 
finite, like  Blake's  best  touches  : 

'  The  pole-star  guides  thee  on  thy  way, 
When  in  dark  nights  thou  qirt  lost  ; 
Therefore  look  up  at  the  starry  day- 
Look  at  the  stars  about  thee  tost.' 

But  these  are  only  the  more  complete  bits  among  a 
quantity  of  fragments.  These  summer  tours  were  prolific  iu 
notes  ;  everything  was  observed  and  turned  into  verse. 

The  other  inspiring  source  during  this  period  of  versifica- 
tion was  his  father— the  household  deity  of  both  wife  and 
child,  whose  chief  delight  was  in  his  daily  return  from  the 
city,  and  in  his  reading  to  them  in  the  dra«-ing-room  at 


PERFERVIDUIM  INGENIUM  23 

ITornc  Hill.  John  was  packed  into  a  recess,  where  he  was 
out  of  the  way  ami  tlie  (lraiij;ht ;  he  was  bamcadcd  by  a 
little  table  that  helil  his  own  materials  for  annisemcnt,  and  if 
he  liked  to  listen  to  the  reading,  he  had  the  chance  of 
hearing  good  literature,  the  chance  sometimes  of  hearing 
passages  from  Hyron  and  Christo|iher  North  and  Cervantes, 
rather  beyond  his  comprehension,  for  his  parents  were  not  of 
the  shockable  sort :  with  all  their  religion  and  strict  Scotch 
morality,  the}  could  laugh  at  a  broail  jest,  as  old-fashioned 
people  could. 

So  he  associated  his  father  and  his  father's  readings  with 
the  poetry  of  reflection,  as  he  associated  the  regular  summer 
round  with  the  poetry  of  description ;  the  two  matinei-s  were 
like  two  rivulets  of  verse  flowing  through  his  life,  occasion- 
ally intermingling,  but  in  their  main  channels  and  directions 
kept  distinct.  As  every  summer  brought  its  crop  of  de- 
scription, so  against  the  New  Year  (for,  being  Scotch,  they 
did  not  then  keep  our  Christmas)  and  against  his  father's 
birthday  in  May  he  usetl  always  to  prepare  some  little  drama 
or  story  or  '  address '  of  a  reflective  nature,  beginning  with 
the  verses  on  '  Time,'  written  for  New  Year's  Day,  1827. 

That  yei\r  they  were  again  at  Perth,  anil  on  their  way 
home  some  early  morning  frost  suggested  the  not  ungraceful 
verses  on  the  icicles  at  Glenfarg.  By  a  childish  misconception, 
the  little  boy  seems  to  have  confused  the  real  valley  that  in- 
tcrcstetl  him  so  with  Scott's  ideal  Glendearg,  and,  partly  for 
this  reason,  to  have  found  a  greater  plcjisure  in  *  The 
Montistery,'  which  he  thereupon  undertook  to  paraphrase  in 
verse.  There  remain  some  hundreds  of  doggerel  rhymes; 
but  his  affection  for  that  particular  novel  survived  the  fatal 
facility  of  his  octosyllabics,  and  reappears  time  after  time  in 
hia  later  writings. 

Next  year,  1828,  their  tour  was  stopped  at  Plymouth  by 
the  painful  news  of  the  death  of  his  aunt  Jessie,  to  whom 
they  were  on  their  way.  It  was  hardly  a  year  since  the 
l»-ight  little  cou>in,  Jes.sie  of  Perth,  had  died  of  water  on  the 
brain.      She  had  been  John's  esjiecial    pet  and   playfellow. 


24  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

clever,  like  him,  and  precocious ;  and  her  death  must  ha^  i 
come  to  his  parents  as  a  warning,  if  they  needed  it,  to  keep 
their  own  cliild's  brain  from  over-pressure.  It  is  evident  that 
they  did  their  best  to  'keep  him  back';  they  did  not  send 
him  to  school  for  fear  of  the  excitement  of  competitive  study. 
His  mother  put  him  through  the  Latin  grammar  herself, 
using  the  old  Adam's  manual  which  his  father  had  used  at 
Edinburgh  High  School.  She  had  the  secret  of  engaging  his 
interest  in  her  lessons  without  using  any  of  those  adventitious 
means  which  teachers  nowadays  recommend.  Even  this  old 
grammar  became  a  sort  of  sacred  book  to  him  ;  and  when  at 
last  he  went  to  school,  and  his  English  master  threw  the  book 
back  to  him,  saying,  'That's  a  Scotch  thing,'  the  boy  was 
shocked  and  affronted,  as  which  of  us  would  be  at  a  criticism 
on  our  first  instrument  of  torture?  He  remembered  the 
incident  all  his  life,  and  pilloried  the  want  of  tact  with 
acerbity  in  his  reminiscences. 

They  could  keep  him  from  school,  but  they  did  not  keep 
him  from  study.  The  year  1828  saw  the  beginning  of 
another  great  work,  '  Eudosia,  a  Poem  on  the  Universe';  it 
was  '  printed '  with  even  greater  neatness  and  labour ;  but 
this  too,  after  being  toiled  at  during  the  winter  months,  was 
dropped  in  the  middle  of  its  second  '  book.'  It  was  not  idle- 
ness that  made  him  break  off  such  plans,  but  just  the  reverse 
• — a  too  great  activity  of  brain.  His  parents  seem  to  have 
thought  that  there  was  no  harm  in  this  apparently  quiet 
reading  and  writing.  They  were  extremely  eneigetic  them- 
selves, and  hated  idleness.  They  seeined  to  have  held  a 
theory  that  their  little  boy  was  safe  so  long  as  he  was  not 
obviously  excited  ;  and  to  have  thought  that  the  proper  way 
of  giving  children  pocket-money  was  to  let  thuin  earn  it.  So 
they  used  to  pay  him  for  his  literary  labours  ;  '  Homer'  was 
one  shilling  a  page ;  'Composition,'  one  penny  for  twenty 
lines;  '  JMineralogy,'  one  penny  an  article.  And  the  re.sult 
of  it  ail  is  described  in  a  chapter  of  '  Harry  ami  Lucy,' 
written  at  the  end  of  182S. 
•  After  Harry  had  learned  his  lessons  he  went  to  a  poera 


PERFERVIDUM  INGENIUM  25 

tliat  he  was  composinj^  for  his  father  on  New  Year''s  Day.  aa 
lie  always  presented  his  fatlier  with  a  poem  at  that  period. 
Tiie  subjeit  of  it  wjxs  a  battle  between  the  Pretender,  or 
"Chevalier,"  as  Harry  woulil  have  him  calleil,  and  the  forces, 
or  part  of  the  forces,  of  Cleor^e  II.  All  the  poems  that  he 
had  hitherto  presented  to  his  father  were  printed  in  wiiat 
llarry  called  siti^-le  htttrs,  thus,  "  n "  or  "  m,"  but  Harry 
printed  this  double  print,  in  this  manner,  "21";  and  it  was 
most  beautifully  done,  you  may  be  sure.  It  was  irregular 
measure. 

'Harry,  when  he  had  done  what  he  thought  a  nuxlerate 
allowance  of  his  poem,  went  to  his  map.  But  scarcely  had 
the  pen  touched  the  paper  when  in  came  dinner.  However, 
that  hindrance  wius  soon  over,  and  Ilarrv  returned  to  his  map. 
IlaiTy  to-day  nearly  finished  it;  and,  after  having  had  some 
"Don  Quixote,"  he  went  to  bed. 

'  But  as,  whenever  the  world  was  left  "  to  darkness  and  to 
me,"  a  bright  thought  came  into  Harry's  minil,  he  thought 
that  if  he  could  contrive  to  make  a  Punch's  show,  or  rather 
Fantoccini,  out  of  paper,  he  would  exhibit  it  when  he  pre- 
sented his  poem,  and  please  his  father  a  little  more.  So  he 
fell  to  work  to  invent  or  |)lan  one.  First,  he  settleil  the  si/e, 
which  was  to  be  about  five  inches  long,  two  broad,  and  two 
sideways.  The  top,  where  the  figures  were  to  act,  was  to  be 
two  inches  sipiare. 

'This  settled,  Harry  began  to  think  how  he  should  make 
it.  This  was  rather  diHicult.  Harry  first  thought  what 
shape  the  |)iocc  of  pajwr  must  l)e,  before  it  was  put  together 
so  as  to  form  the  show.  [Follows  a  description  with 
diagrams,  elaborate  and  correct,  of  a  marionette-theatre, 
ntluced  to  lowest  terms,  with  pjisteboard  figures  worked  from 
below  with  sticks.] 

'  Harry,  being  now  quite  satisfied  with  his  plan,  fell 
asleep  .  .  .  antl  in  the  morning  .  .  .  alius  !  be  was,  to  use  his 
own  words,  in  a  hugeous  hunv  !  Four  tiays,  and  he  would 
be  entering  upon  another  year.  How  was  he  to  get  a  |)ocm 
Inislied  consisting  of  eighty-nine  lines — finished  in  that  style 


26  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

of  printing — with  the  show  ?     It  was  altogether  impossible. 
So  Harry  put  oflP  the  show  till  his  father  s  birthday.'' 

This  was  the  end  of  that  long-continued  episode,  for  he  had 
now  found  a  real  Lucy,  and  the  ideal  vanished.  The  death  of 
his  aunt  Jessie  left  a  large  family  of  boys  and  one  girl  i^o  the 
care  of  their  widowed  father,  and  the  Ruskins  felt  it  their 
duty  to  help.  They  fetched  Mary  Richardson  away,  and 
brought  her  up  as  a  sister  to  their  solitary  son.  She  was  not 
so  beloved  as  Jessie  had  been,  but  a  good  girl  and  a  nice  girl, 
four  years  older  than  John,  and  able  to  be  a  companion  to 
him  in  his  lessons  and  travels.  There  was  no  sentimentality 
about  his  attachment  to  her,  but  a  steady  fraternal  relation- 
ship, he,  of  course,  being  the  little  lord  and  master ;  but  she 
was  not  without  spirit,  which  enabled  her  to  hold  her  own, 
and  perseverance,  which  sometimes  helped  her  to  eclipse,  for 
the  moment,  his  brilliancy.  They  learnt  together,  wrote 
their  journals  together,  and  shared  alike  with  the  scrupulous 
fairness  which  Mrs.  Ruskin's  sensible  nature  felt  called  on  to 
show.  And  so  she  remained  his  sister,  and  not  quite  his 
sister,  until  she  married,  and  after  a  very  short  married  life 
died. 

Another  accession  to  the  family  took  place  in  the  same 
year  (1828);  the  Croydon  aunt,  too,  had  died,  and  left  a 
dear  dog.  Dash,  a  brown  and  white  spaniel,  which  at  first 
refused  to  leave  her  coffin,  but  was  coaxed  away,  and  found 
a  happy  home  at  Heme  Hill,  and  frequent  celebration  in  his 
young  master's  verses.  So  the  family  was  now  complete — 
papa  and  mamma,  Mary  and  John  and  Dash.  One  other 
figure  must  not  be  forgotten,  Nurse  Anne,  who  had  come 
from  the  Edinburgh  home,  and  remained  always  with  them, 
John's  nurse  and  then  Mrs.  Ruskin's  attendant,  as  devoted 
and  as  censorious  as  any  old-style  Scotch  servant  in  a  story- 
book. 

Tlie  year  1829  marked  an  advance  in  poetical  composition. 
For  his  father's  birthday  he  did  something  better  than  the 
'  show ' — a  book  more  elaborate  than  any,  sixteen  pages  in  a 
red    cover,  with  a   title-page   quite  like   print :    '  Battle  of 


PERFERVmUM  INGENIUM  27 

Wfttcrloo  I  a  play  |  in  two  acts  |  with  other  small  |  Poems  | 
dedicated  to  his  father  |  by  John  Ruskin  |  1829  |  Ilernhill 
(sic)  DuIm iih.'  The  play,  modelled  on  a  Shakesj)eare  history, 
shows  Wciliiif^ton  with  his  generals,  and  Bonaparte  with  his 
guards,  mouthing  '  prave  'orts'  like  Prince  Harry  and  Pistol. 
There  is  a  Shakespearian  chorus,  bidding  you  imagine  the 
fight ;  and  in  the  next  act  the  arrival  of  lllucher  is  drama- 
tized, and  I^uis  XMH.,  with  the  Duchess  of  Angouleme, 
praying  for  the  issue.  Then  we  have  Bonaparte  soliKxiui/.ing 
on  the  deck  of  the  RcUerophon,  with  the  chorus  at  the  end 
describing  the  triumphal  procession  in  London. 

To  this  are  appended,  among  other  pieces,  fair  copies  of 
the  'May,'  and  '  Skiddaw,' and  '  Derwentwater,' printeii  in  his 
collected  poems  from  a  prcvious  copy.  There  is  sometliing 
\cTy  Kuskinian  in  the  thought,  when  comparing  Skiddaw 
with  the  Pyramids  : 

'  All  that  art  can  do 

la  nothing  beside  thee.     The  touch  of  man 

Riiiaed  pigmy  mouutiiins,  but  gigantic  tombs. 

The  touch  of  Nature  raiaed  the  n)0uutuiu'8  brow, 

But  mode  uo  tombs  at  all.' 

Right  or  wrong,  that  always  remained  his  leading  motive, 
the  normal  bcnelicence  of  Nature ;  and  no  wonder,  for  Nature, 
as  he  knew  her,  was  very  kind  to  him  in  those  glorious  early 
years  of  home  love  and  sunmier  excursions  into  wonder- 
land. 

An  illness  of  his  postponed  their  tour  for  1829,  until  it 
was  too  late  for  more  than  a  little  journey  in  Kent.  Mr. 
Ruskin  has  referred  his  earliest  sketching  to  this  occasion, 
but  it  seems  likely  that  the  drawings  attribute<l  to  this  year 
were  done  in  1831.  He  was,  however,  busy  writing  |X)ctry. 
At  Tunbridge,  for  example,  he  wrote  that  fragment  'On 
Happiness'  which  catches  so  cleverly  the  tones  of  Young — 
a  writer  whose  orthodox  mondi/ing  suited  with  the  cree<l  in 
which  John  lliiskin  was  brought  up,  alternating,  be  it  re- 
membered, with  '  Don  Quixote.' 

Coming  home,  he  began  a  new  edition  of  his  verses,  on  a 


28  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

mort  pretentious  scale  than  the  old  red  books,  in  a  fine 
bound  voknne,  exquisitely  '  printed,' with  the  poems  dateil. 
This  new  energy  seems  to  have  been  roused  bv  the  <i;ift  from 
hisCro\(lon  cousin  Charles,  a  clerk  in  the  pubiishinn;  house  of 
Smith,  Elder,  and  Co.,  of  their  annual  '  Friendship's  Offering.' 
Mrs.  Ruskin,  in  a  letter  of  October  31,  1829,  finds  'the 
pnntrv  very  so-so ' ;  but  John  evidently  made  the  book  his 
model. 

An  enormous  quantity  of  verse  follows,  of  which  onlv 
samples  have  seen  the  light.  The  '  poems '  are  curious  from 
their  great  variety  of  style  and  subject,  grave  and  gay  ;  but, 
as  might  hardly  be  expected,  the  violent-heroic  predominates. 
There  was  a  strong  touch  of  Celtic  bravura  in  little  John's 
character  ;  he  liked  to  be  dressed  as  a  solJier,  and  lived  in 
imagination  much  among  warriors.  And  down  to  his  later 
years,  though  nobody  has  so  energetically  denounced  the 
waste  and  the  cruelty  and  the  folly  of  war,  yet  nobody  has 
dwelt  so  lovingly  on  the  virtues  that  war  brings  out  in  noble 
natures,  and  on  the  dignities  of  a  knight's  faith.  '  'T.'is  vice,' 
|,r.  ..,.•«  ;n  onp  of  the  poems  of  this  time,  '  'tis  vice,  not  war, 
that  is  the  curse  of  man.' 

lie  w.us  now  growing  out  of  his  mother's  tutorship,  and  in 
this  last  autumn  he  was  put  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Andrews 
for  his  I^atin.  He  relates  the  introduction  in  '  Prasterita,' 
and  more  circumstantially,  in  a  letter  of  the  time,  to  Mrs. 
Monro,  the  mother  of  his  charming  Mrs.  Richard  Gray,  the 
indulgent  neighbour  who  used  to  pamper  the  little  gourmand 
with  delicacies  unknown  in  severe  Mrs.  Ruskin's  dining- 
room.  He  says  in  the  letter — this  is  at  ten  years  old  :  '  Well, 
papa,  seeing  how  fond  I  was  of  the  doctor,  and  knowing  him 
to  be  an  excellent  Latin  scholar,  got  him  for  me  as  a  tutor, 
and  every  lesson  I  get  I  like  him  better  and  better,  for  he 
makes  me  laugh  "  almost,  if  not  quite  " — to  use  one  of  his 
own  expressions — the  whole  time.  He  is  so  funny,  comparing 
Neptune's  lifting  uji  the  wrecked  ships  of  .Eneas  with  his 
triilent  to  my  lifting  up  a  potato  with  a  fork,  or  taking  a 
piece  of  bread  out  of  a  bowl  of  milk  with  a  spoon !     And  as 


3 


PERFERVIDUJI  INGENIUM  29 

e  is  always  saying  [things]  of  that  kind,  or  relating  some 
roll  iinecclote,  or  explaining  the  j)art  of  Viigil  (the  book 
liicli  I  am  in)  very  nicely,  I  am  always  delighted  when 
(ondavs,  Wednesdays,  and  Fridays  are  come.' 
Dr.  Andrews  was  no  doiiht  a  genial  teacher,  and  had  been 
scholar  of  some  distinction  in  his  University  of  Glasgow ; 
it  perhaps  he  was  not  the  most  judicious  master  for  a 
•ecocious  antl  vereatile  pupil.  jMrs.  lluskin  thought  him 
iighty,'  as  well  she  might,  when,  after  six  months'  Greek, 
^  proposed  (in  March,  IHiil)  to  begin  Hebrew  with  John. 
.  was  a  great  misfortune  for  the  voung  genius  that  he  was 
^t  more  steridy  drilled  at  the  outset,  and  he  suffered  for  it 
irough  many  a  long  year  of  struggles  with  deficient  scholar- 
,ip. 

The  Doctor  had  a  large  family  and  pretty  daughters, 
ne,  who  wrote  vei-ses  in  John's  note-book,  and  sang  '  Tam- 
)urgi,' Mrs.  Orme,  lived  until  189iJ  in  Bcdfoid  Park;  the 
her  lives  in  Mr.  Coventry  Patniore's  'Angel  in  the  House.' 
'hen  Mr.  lluskin,  thirty  years  later,  wrote  of  that  doubt- 
llv-received  |)oem,  that  it  was  the  'sweetest  analysis  we 
)ssess  of  t[uiet,  modern,  domestic  feeling,'  few  of  his  readers 
uhl  have  known  all  the  grounds  of  his  appreciation,  or 
spected  the  weight  of  meaning  in  the  words. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MOUNTAIN-WORSHIP.    (1830-1835.) 

•The  North  and  Nature  taught  me  to  adore 
Your  scenes  sublime,  from  those  beloved  before.' 
Byeon, 

CRITICS  who  are  least  disposed  to  give  Mr.  Ruskin  credit 
for  his  aiiistic  doctrines  or  economical  theories  unite  in 
allowing  that  he  has  taught  us  to  look  at  Nature,  and 
especially  at  the  sublime  in  Nature — at  storms  and  sunrises, 
and  the  forests  and  snows  of  the  Alps.  Not  that  such  things 
were  unknown  to  others,  but  that  he  has  most  impressively 
united  the  merely  poetical  sentiment  of  their  grandeur  with 
something  of  a  scientific  curiosity  as  to  their  details  and 
conditions ;  he  has  brought  us  to  linger  among  the  moun- 
tains, and  to  love  them.  And  as  a  man  rarely  convinces 
unless  he  is  convinced,  so  this  mission  of  mountain-worship 
has  been  the  outcome  of  a  passion  beside  which  the  other 
interests  and  occupations  of  his  youth  were  only  toys.  He 
fould  take  up  his  mineralogy  and  his  moralizing  and  lay  them 
down,  but  the  love  of  mountain  scenery  was  something 
beyond  his  control.  AVe  have  seen  him  leave  his  heart  in  the 
Highlands  at  three  years  old;  we  have  now  to  follow  his 
passionate  pilgi'images  to  Skiddaw  and  Snowdon,  to  the  Jung- 
i'rau  and  JVlont  Blanc. 

They  had  planned  a  great  tour  through  the  Lakes  and  the 
North  two  years  before,  but  were  stojiped  at  Plymouth  by  the 
news  of  Airs.  Richardson's  death.     At   last   the   plan  was 


MOUNTAIN-WORSHIP  81 

ram'ed  out.  A  prose  diary  was  written  alternately  by  John 
»nd  Marv,  one  carrying  it  on  when  tlie  other  tired,  with 
"atlier  curious  effect  of  unequallv-yolicd  collaboration.  We 
x-ad  how  tliey  '  set  oft'  IVoni  London  at  seven  o'clock  on 
ruesday  morning,  the  18th  of  May,'  and  thenceforward  we 
ire  spared  no  detail:  the  furniture  of  the  inns ;  the  bills  of 
are;  when  they  got  out  of  the  caniage  and  walked;  how 
hey  lost  their  luggage  ;  what  they  thought  of  colleges  and 
■haj)els,  music  anil  May  races  at  Oxford,  of  Shakespeare's 
omb,  and  the  pin-factory  at  Birmingham  ;  we  have  a  com- 
)lete  guide-book  to  Blenheim  and  \Varwick  Castle,  to 
laddon  and  Cliatsworth,  and  the  full  itinerary  of  Derby- 
hire.  '  Matlock  Bath,' we  read,  '  is  a  most  delightful  place' ; 
mt  after  an  enthusiastic  description  of  High  Tor,  John 
eacts  into  bathos  with  a  minute  description  of  wetting 
heir  shoes  in  a  puddle.  The  cavern  with  a  Bengal  light 
ras  fairyland  to  him,  and  among  the  minerals  he  was  quite 
.t  home. 

Everything  was  interesting  on  these  journeys,  everything 
iras  noteworthy,  and  the  excitement  was  certainly  kept  up  at 
,  high  pitch.  Sight-seeing  by  day  was  not  enough — John 
iiust  get  out  his  book  after  supper  in  the  evening  at  the 
otel  and  write  poems.  When  he  had  written  up  his  journal, 
e  went  on  with  some  subject  totally  unconnected  with  his 
ravels  or  the  place  he  was  in.  For  instance,  after  seeing 
laddon,  that  very  night  he  finished  a  gi-uesome  vision  of  the 
)ay  of  Jutlgment.  This  power  of  detaching  himself  from 
jrroundings,  and  fixing  his  mind  on  any  business  on  hand, 
as  always  been  one  of  his  most  curious  and  most  enviable 
ills.  How  few  writers  could  correct  proofs  at  Sestri  and 
rite  political  economy  at  Chamouni !  After  spending  the 
loniing  in  drawing  early  Gothic,  and  the  afternoon  driving 
3  some  historic  site,  with  a  sketch  of  sunset,  perhaps,  he  could 
;ttle  down  in  his  hotel  bedroom  and  write  a  preface  to  an 
Id  work,  and  next  moniing  be  up  before  the  sun  busy  at  a 
lanter  of  '  Tors'  or  '  Pra?terita.' 

To  resume  the  tour.     '  Manchester  is  a  most  disagreeable 


32  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

town,'  but  at  Liverpool  they  were  delighted  with  the  river, 
assisted  at  a  trifling  colHsion,  and  got  caught  in  the  old  dock- 
gates,  on  which  atlventure  John  bursts  into  ballad  rhvme. 
Then  they  huri-ied  north  to  "Windermere.  Once  at  Lowwood, 
the  excitement  thickens,  with  storms  and  rainbo*vs,  mountains 
and  waterfalls,  boats  on  the  lake  and  coaching  on  the  sleep 
roads.  This  journey  through  Lakeland  is  described  in  the 
galloping  anapaests  of  the  '  Iteriad,'  which  was  simply  the 
prose  journal  versified  on  his  return,  one  of  the  few  enter- 
pi-ises  of  the  sort  which  was  really  completed. 

To  readers  who  know  the  country  it  is  interesting,  as  giving 
a  detailed  accomit  sixty  years  ago,  in  the  days  of  the  old 
regime,  when  this  'nook  of  English  ground'  was  'secure 
from  rash  assault.'  One  leams  that,  even  then,  there  were 
jarring  sights  at  Bowness  Bay  and  along  Derwentwater  shore, 
elements  unkind  and  bills  exorbitant.  Coniston  especiallv 
was  dreary  with  rain,  and  its  inn — the  old  ^^'aterhead,  now 
desti-oyed — extravagantly  dear  ;  '  hut,''  says  John,  with  his  eye 
for  mineral  specimens, '  it  contains  several  rich  copper-mines.' 
An  interesting  touch  is  the  hero-worship  with  which  they 
went  reverently  to  peep  at  Southey  and  Wordsworth  in 
diurch ;  too  humble  to  dream  of  an  introduction,  and  too 
polite  to  besiege  the  poets  in  their  homes,  but  independent 
enough  to  form  their  own  opinions  on  the  personality  of  the 
heroes.  They  did  not  like  the  look  of  Wordsworth  at  all ; 
Southey  they  adored. 

The  dominant  note  of  the  tour  is,  however,  an  ecstatic 
delight  in  the  mountain  scenery;  on  Skiddaw  and  Helvellvn 
ail  the  gamut  of  admiration  is  lavished.  Reluctantly  leaving  flj 
the  wiltler  country,  they  returned  to  Derbyshire,  and  meeting  ■ 
a  friend  to  whom  it  was  new,  they  revisited  everything  with 
revived  pleasure,  lliey  did  not  seem  to  know  what  it  was  to 
be  bored.  The  whole  tour  was  a  triumphal  progress,  or  a 
march  of  conquest. 

On  returning  home,  Jolin  began  Greek  under  Dr.  Andrews, 
and  was  soon  versifying  Anacreon  in  his  notebooks.  He 
began  to  read  Byron  for  himself,  with  what  result  we  shall 


MOUNTAIN-WORSHIP  83 

lee  before  long ;  but  the  most  important  new  dojiartnre  was 
the  nttcinj)t  to  copy  Cruiksli.uik's  etchings  to  Grinnn's  f.iiiy- 
talcs,  liis  reul  begiinjing  at  art.  From  this  practice  he  Ic  init 
the  value  of  the  hne — the  pure,  clean  line  that  expresus 
form.  It  is  a  good  instance  of  the  authority  of  I'lese  early 
rears  over  Mr.  Uuskin's  whole  life  and  teaching  that  in  his 
Elements  of  Drawing'  he  advises  young  artists  to  begin  with 
L'ruikshank,  as  he  began,  and  that  he  wrote  ap|)reci.iti\cly  both 
)f  the  stories  and  the  etchings  so  many  ilecades  afterwards  in 
he  preface  to  a  reprint  by  J.  C.  Hottcn. 

His  cousin-sister  Mary  had  been  sent  to  a  day-school  when 
VIrs.  Raskin's  lessons  were  supei-scded  bv  Dr.  Andrews,  and 
he  had  learnt  enough  drawing  to  attempt  a  view  of  the  hotel 
it  Matlock,  a  thing  which  John  could  not  do.  So,  now  that 
le  too  showeil  some  power  of  neat  draughtsmanship,  it  wa.s 
elt  that  he  ought  to  have  her  advantages.  They  got  Mr. 
lunciman  the  drawing- master,  chosen,  it  may  be,  as  a 
elative  of  the  well-known  Edinburgh  artist  of  the  same 
lame,  to  give  him  lessons,  in  the  earlv  part  of  1S31.  His 
caching  wiis  of  the  kind  which  preceiled  the  Ilardingesque : 
t  aimed  at  a  bold  use  of  the  soft  pencil,  with  a  certain  round- 
less  of  composition  and  inchncss  of  texture,  a  conventional 
right  way '  of  drawing  anything.  This  was  hardly  what 
ohn  wanted  ;  but,  not  to  be  beaten,  he  facsimiled  the  master  s 
reehand  in  a  sort  of  engraver's  stipple,  which  his  habitual 
eatness  helped  him  to  do  in  pcrl'ection.  jN.fr.  Runciman 
oon  put  a  stop  to  that,  and  took  pains  with  a  pupil  who  took 
uch  pains  with  himself — taught  him,  at  any  rate,  the  princi- 
les  of  pei-speclive,  and  remained  his  only  draw  ing-master  for 
2veral  yeai-s. 

A  sample  of  John  Ruskin's  early  lessons  in  drawing,  de- 
:ribetl  by  him  in  letters  to  his  father,  may  be  not  without 
itercsi.     On  February  '20,  \Hii^2,  he  writes: 

'.  .  .  You  saw  the  two  models  that  were  last  sent,  before 

ou  went  away.     Well,  I   took   my   paper,  and    I   (ixed   my 

oints,  and  I  drew  my  perspective,  and  then,  as  Mr.  Runciman 

old   me,  I   began  to    invent  a  scene.     You   remember  tho 

3 


34  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

cottage  that  we  saw  as  we  went  to  Rhaidyr  Dhu  (sic),  near 
IVIaentwrog,  where  the  old  woman  lived  whose  grandson  went 
with  us  to  the  fall,  so  very  silently  ?  I  thought  my  model  re- 
senihled  that ;  so  I  drew  a  tree — such  a  tree,  such  an  enormous 
fellow — and  I  sketched  the  waterfall,  with  its  dark  rocks,  and 
its  luxuriant  wood,  and  its  high  mountains  ;  and  then  I 
exammed  one  of  Mary's  pictures  to  see  how  the  rocks  were 
done,  and  another  to  see  how  the  woods  were  done,  and 
another  to  see  how  the  mountains  were  done,  and  another  to 
see  how  the  cottages  were  done,  and  I  patched  them  all 
together,  and  I  made  such  a  lovely  scene — oh,  I  should  get 
such  a  scold  from  Mr.  Runciman  (that  is,  if  he  ever  scolded) !' 

After  the  next  lesson  he  wrote,  February  27,  1832 :  '  You 
know  the  beautiful  model  di-awing  that  I  gave  you  an  account 
of  in  my  last  ?  I  showed  it  to  IMr.  Runciman.  He  con- 
templated it  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and  then,  turning,  asked 
me  if  I  had  copied.  I  told  him  how  I  had  patched  it  up ; 
but  he  said  that  that  was  not  copying,  and  although  he  was 
not  satisfied  with  the  picture,  he  said  there  was  something  in 
it  that  would  make  him  totally  change  the  method  he  had 
hitherto  pursued  with  me.  He  then  asked  ^lary  for  some 
grav  i^aper,  which  was  produced ;  then  inquired  if  I  had  a 
colour-box ;  I  produced  the  one  you  gave  me,  and  he  then 
told  me  he  should  begin  with  a  few  of  the  simplest  colours, 
in  order  to  teach  me  better  the  effects  of  light  and  shade. 
He  should  then  proceed  to  teach  me  water-colour  painting, 
but  the  latter  only  as  a  basis  for  oil ;  this  last,  however,  to 
use  his  own  words,  all  in  due  time.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  I  could  paint 
well  before  we  went  to  Dover  !  I  should  have  such  sea- 
pieces.  .  .  .' 

In  March  1834,  Mr.  Runciman  was  encouraging  him  in  his 
oil-painting  ;  but  a  year  later  he  wrote  to  his  father : 

'  I  cannot  bear  to  paint  in  oil. 
C.  Fieldiug's  tints  alone  for  me! 
The  other  costs  me  double  toil, 
And  wants  some  fifty  coats  to  b« 
Splashed  on  each  spot  successively. 


MOUNTAIN-WORSHIP  85 

Faugh,  wie  es  stinckt !  I  can't  bring  out 
With  nil,  a  picture  lit  to  see. 
My  l)l:ulilei-s  burst  ;  my  oils  are  out — 
Aud  then,  what's  all  the  work  about?' 

After  a  few  lessons  lie  could  rival  Marv  when  lliey  went  for 
heir  sununer  excursion.  He  set  to  work  at  once  at  Seven- 
laks  to  draw  cottages  ;  at  Dover  and  Battle  he  attempted 
astles.  It  may  be  that  these  fii-st  sketches  are  of  the  pre- 
lunciman  perioil ;  hut  the  lluskins  made  the  round  of  Kent 
Q  1831,  and  though  the  drawings  are  by  no  means  in  the 
Qa.stcr"s  style,  they  show  some  prtictice  in  using  the  pencil. 

The  journey  was  extendeil  by  the  old  route,  conditioned 
)y  business  as  before,  round  the  South  Coast  to  the  West  of 
Sngiand,  and  then  into  Wales.  There  his  powers  of  drawing 
ailed  him  ;  moonlight  on  Snowdon  was  too  vague  a  subjeci 
or  the  blacklead  point,  but  a  hint  of  it  could  be  conveyed 
n  rhyme : 

'  Folding  like  an  airy  vest, 

The  very  clouds  had  sunk  to  rest  ; 

Light  gilds  the  rugged  luouutiiiu's  breast, 

Calmly  as  they  lay  below  ; 

Every  hill  seemed  topped  with  snow, 

As  the  flowing  tide  of  light 

Broke  the  slumbers  of  the  night.' 

Harlech  Castle  was  too  sublime  for  a  sketch,  but  it  was 
)ainteJ  with  the  pen  : 

'So  mighty,  so  majestic,  and  so  lone  ; 
And  all  tliy  music,  now,  the  ocean's  murmuring.' 

\nd  the  enthusiasm  of  mountain  glory,  a  sort  of  Bacchic 
Krstasy  of  uncontrollable  passion,  strives  for  articulate 
lelivcrance  in  the  climbing  song,  '  I  love  ye,  ye  eternal 
liUs.' 

It  was  hard  to  come  back  to  the  daily  round,  the  common 
Uuk,  especially  when,  in  this  autumn  of  1831,  to  Dr. 
Andrews'  Ijitin  and  Greek,  the  French  grammar  and  Euclid 
here  added,  under  Mr.  Ilowbotham.  And  the  new  tutor  had 
Qo  funny  stories  to  tell ;  he  was  not  so  engaging  a  man  a 
^2 


36  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

the  '  dear  Doctor,''  and  his  memory  was  not  sweet  to  his  way- 
ward j)uj)il.  But  the  parents  had  chosen  the  best  man  for 
the  work — one  who  was  favourably  known  by  his  manuals, 
antl  capable  of  interesting  even  a  budding  poet  in  the 
mathematics ;  for  our  author  tells  that  at  Oxford,  and  ever 
after,  he  knew  his  Euclid  without  the  figures,  and  that  he 
spent  all  his  spare  time  in  trying  to  trisect  an  angle.  An  old 
letter  from  Kowbotham  informs  JMr.  J.  J.  Ruskin  that  an 
eminent  mathematician  had  seen  John's  attempt,  and  had 
said  that  it  was  the  cleverest  he  knew.  In  French,  too,  he 
progressed  enough  to  be  able  to  find  his  way  alone  in  Paris 
two  years  later.  And  however  the  saucy  boy  may  have 
satirized  his  tutor  in  the  droll  verses  on  '  Bedtime,"  ]Mr.  Row- 
botham  always  remembered  him  with  affection,  and  spoke  of 
him  with  respect.  John  Ruskin,  boy  and  man,  had  a  terrible 
power  of  winning  hearts. 

In  s])ite  of  these  tedious  tutorships,  he  managed  to  scribble 
energetically  all  this  winter,  writing  with  amazing  rapidity, 
as  his  mother  notes :  attempts  at  ^V'^averley  novels,  which 
never  got  beyond  the  first  chapter,  and  imitations  of  '  Childe 
Harold '  and  '  Don  Juan  ' ;  scraps  in  the  style  of  everybody 
in  turn,  necessarily  imitative  because  immature.  He  was 
curiously  versatile;  one  time  he  would  be  pedantic  or  stiff 
with  the  buckram  and  plume  of  romance ;  again,  gossipy  and 
naif  and  humon.us ;  then  sarcastic  and  satirical,  sj)aring  no 
one  ;  then  carried  away  with  a  frenzy  of  excitement,  which 
struggles  to  express  itself,  convulsivtjy,  and  dies  away  in 
nonsense.  No  wonder  his  mother  sent  him  to  bed  at  nine 
punctually,  and  kept  him  from  school,  in  vain  efforts  to  quiet 
his  brain.  The  lack  of  companions  was  made  up  to  him  in 
the  frientlship  of  Richard  I'all,  son  of  a  neighbour  on  '  the 
Hill,'  a  boy  without  affectation  or  morbidity  of  disposition 
whose  complementary  character  suited  him  well.  An  alfection- 
ate  conuaiieship  sprang  up  between  the  two  lads,  and  lasted, 
until  in  middle  life  they  drifted  apart,  in  no  ill-will,  but  each 
going  on  his  own  coui'se  to  his  own  destiny. 

Some  real  advance  was  made  this  winter  (1831-32)  with 


MOUNTAIN-WORSHIP  87 

lis  Shellcvan  'Sonnet  to  a  Cloud'  and  his  imitations  of 
Bvion's  '  Hebrew  Melodies,'  from  wliich  he  learnt  how  to 
•onccntrate  expression,  and  to  use  rich  vowel-sounds  anil 
iquid  consonants  with  roliinjr  effect.  A  deeper  and  more 
crious  turn  of  thouirht,  that  j^radually  usurped  the  ]ilace  of 
he  first  boyish  effervescence,  has  been  traced  bv  hini  to  the 
iiHucnce  of  Hyron,  in  whom,  while  others  see  nothinij  more 
han  wit  ami  passion,  Mr.  lluskin  could  feel  an  earnest  mind 
ind  a  sountl  judgment. 

But  the  most  sincere  poem — if  sincerity  be  marked  by 
mstudied  phrase  and  ne<i;lected  rhyme — the  most  genuine 
lyrical  cry '  of  this  period,  is  that  song  in  which  our  boy-poet 
»oureil  forth  his  longing  for  the  'blue  hills'  he  had  loved  as 
,  baby,  and  for  those  Coniston  crags  over  which,  when  he 
lecame  old  and  sorely  stricken,  he  wiis  still  to  see  the  morning 
)reak.  AVlien  he  wrote  these  verses  he  was  nearly  fourteen, 
>r  just  past  his  birthday.  It  had  been  eighteen  months  since 
le  had  been  in  Wales,  and  all  the  weary  while  he  had  seen 
lo  moiuitains  ;  but  in  his  regrets  he  goes  back  a  year  farther 
till,  to  fix  upon  the  Lakeland  hills,  less  majestic  than 
mowdon,  but  more  endeared,  and  he  describes  his  sensations 
tn  approaching  the  beloved  objects  in  the  very  terms  that 
3uute  uses  for  his  first  sight  of  Beatrice  : 

•  I  weary  for  the  fountain  foaming, 
For  shady  holm  and  hill  ; 
My  niiud  is  ou  the  mountain  roaming, 
My  spirit's  voice  is  still. 

•The  craffs  are  lone  on  Coniston 
And  Ularamara's  dell  ;♦ 
And  dreary  on  the  n)ii;h(y  one, 
The  cloud-euwreatheJ  Sca-felL 

•Oh,  what  although  the  crags  be  stem. 

Their  niighty  peaks  that  sever  ; 
Fre-sh  flies  the  breeze  on  nioiintain-fern, 

And  free  ou  mountain  heather.  .  .  . 


•  So  in  the  lir^t  MS.  ;  changed  afterwards  to  '  Loweawater'g  dell.' 


88  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

'  There  is  a  thrill  of  strange  delight 

That  passes  quivering  o'er  tiii". 

When  blue  hills  rise  -upoii  the  sijht. 

Like  summer  clouds  before  me.' 

Judge,  then,  of  the  delight  with  which  he  turned  over  the 
pages  of  a  new  book,  given  him  this  birthday  by  the  kind 
Mr.  Telford,  in  whose  can-iage  he  had  first  seen  those  blue 
hills — a  book  in  which  all  his  mountain-ideals,  and  more, 
were  caught  and  kept  enshrined — visions  still,  and  of  mightier 
peaks  and  ampler  valleys,  romantically  '  tost '  and  sublimely 
'  lost,'  as  he  had  so  often  written  in  his  favourite  rhymes.  In 
the  vignettes  to  Rogei-s'  'Italy,'  Turner  had  touched  the 
chord  for  which  John  Ruskin  had  been  feeling  all  these 
years ;  no  wonder  that  he  took  Turner  for  his  leader  and 
master,  and  fondly  tried  to  copy  the  wonderful  'Alps  at 
Daybreak'  to  begin  with,  and  then  to  imitate  this  new-found 
magic  art  with  his  own  subjects,  and  finally  to  come  boldly 
before  the  world  in  passionate  defence  of  a  man  who  had 
done  such  great  things  for  him. 

This  mountain-worship  was  not  inherited  from  his  father, 
however  it  may  have  been  an  inheritance  from  remoter 
ancestry.  Mr.  J.  J.  Ruskin  never  was  enthusiastic  about 
peaks  and  clouds  and  glaciers,  though  he  was  interested  in 
all  travelling  in  a  general  way.  So  that  it  was  not  Rogers' 
'  Italy '  that  sent  the  family  off  to  the  Alps  that  summer ; 
but,  fortunately  for  John,  his  father's  eye  was  caught  by 
the  romantic  architecture  of  Prout's  'Sketches  in  Flanders 
and  Germany,'  when  it  came  out  in  April,  1833,  and  his 
mother  proposed  to  make  both  of  them  happy  in  a  tour  on 
the  Continent.  The  business-round  was  abandoned,  but  they 
could  see  Mr.  Domecq  ou  theii-  way  back  thiough  Paris,  and 
not  wholly  lose  the  time. 

They  waited  to  keep  papa's  birthday  on  INIay  10,  and  early 
next  morning  drove  olf — father  and  mother,  John  and  IMar) 
Nurse  Anre,  and  the  courier  Salvador.  They  crossed  to 
Calais,  and  post^^d,  as  people  did  in  the  old  times,  slowly 
from  point  to  point ;  stai-ting  betimes,  halting  at  the  road- 


MOUNTAIN-WORSHIP  89 

de  inns,  wliere  John  tried  to  snatch  a  sketch,  reaching  tlieir 
estiiiation  early  enouj^h  to  investigate  the  cathedral  or  the 
itadel,  monuments  of  antiquity  or  achievements  of  modem 
iviiization,  with  impartial  eagei-ness;  and  hcfore  hcdtime 
ohn  would  write  up  his  journal  and  work  up  his  sketches 
1st  as  if  he  were  at  home.  Once  or  twice  he  found  time  to 
t  down  and  make  a  Proutesque  study  of  some  great  build- 
ig,  {irobably  to  please  his  father ;  but  his  mind  was  set  on 
is  Turner  vignettes. 

So  they  went  through  Flanders  and  Germany,  following 
'i-out's  lead  by  the  castles  of  the  Khinc ;  but  at  last,  at 
chaffhausen  one  Sunday  evening — 'suddenly — behold — 
eyond  !' — they  had  seen  the  Alps.  Thenceforward  Turner 
'as  their  guide  as  they  crossed  the  SpUigen,  sailed  the 
talian  lakes,  wondered  at  Milan  Cathedral,  and  the  Mcdi- 
erranean  at  Genoa,  and  then — whether  because  it  was  too 
ot  to  go  soutliward,  or  because  John  having  tasted  the 
Ups  importuned  for  more — roamed  through  the  Oherland 
nd  back  to  Chamouni.  All  this  while  a  great  jilan  shaped 
;self  in  the  boy's  head,  no  less  than  to  make  a  Rogers' 
Italy'  for  himself,  just  as  once  he  had  tried  to  make  a 
Harry  and  Lucy'  or  a  'Dictionary  of  Minerals.'  On  every 
ilace  they  passed  he  would  write  verses  and  prose  sketches, 
o  give  respectively  the  romance  and  the  reality,  or  ridicule  ; 
or  he  saw  the  comic  .side  of  it  all,  keenly  ;  and  he  would 
llustrate  the  series  with  Turneresque  vignettes,  drawn  with 
he  finest  crowquill  pen,  to  imitate  the  delicate  engravings. 
L'hat  was  his  plan,  and  if  he  never  quite  cairied  it  out,  he 
;ot  good  practice  in  two  things  which  went  to  the  making  of 
Modern  Painters' — in  descriptive  writing,  and  in  getting 
.t  the  mind  and  method  of  Tunier,  by  following  him 
in  his  own  sketching-ground,  and  carrying  out  his  subjects 
n  his  own  way.  This  is  just  what  Turner  had  done  with 
I'andevelde  and  Claude,  and  it  is  the  way  to  learn  a  land- 
cape-painter's  business  ;  there  is  no  other,  for  simple  copying 
leglects  the  relation  of  art  to  Nature — it  is  like  trying 
o   learn   a   language   without   a  dictionary,  and   unguided 


4C  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

experiments  are  not  education  at  all.  By  this  imitation  of 
Turner  and  Prout,  apart  from  Mr.  Runciman's  lessons  in 
oil-painting,  John  Ruskin  learnt  more  drawing  in  two  or 
three  years  than  most  amateur  students  do  in  seven  ;  he  had 
hit  upon  the  right  method,  and  worked  hard.  For  the  fii-st 
year  he  has  the '  Watchtower  of  Andemach '  and  the  '  Jungfrau 
from  Interlaken'  to  show,  with  others  of  similar  style,  and 
thenceforward  alternates  between  Turner  and  Prout,  until  he 
settles  into  something  different  from  either. 

But  Turner  and  Prout  were  not  the  only  artists  he  knew ; 
at  Paris  he  found  his  way  into  the  Louvre,  and  got  leave 
from  the  directors,  though  he  was  under  the  age  required, 
to  copy.  It  is  curious  that  the  picture  he  chose  was  a 
Rembrandt ;  it  shows  what  the  casual  reader  of  his  works  on 
art  might  miss,  that  he  is  naturally  a  chiaroscurist,  and  that 
his  praise  of  the  pre-Raphaelite  colour  and  draughtsmanship 
is  not  prompted  by  his  taste  and  native  feehng  so  much  as 
by  intellectual  judgment. 

Between  this  foreign  tour  and  the  next,  his  amusement  was 
to  draw  these  vignettes,  and  to  write  the  poems  suggested  by 
the  scenes  he  had  visited.  He  had  outgrown  the  evening 
lessons  with  Dr.  Andrews,  and  as  he  was  fifteen,  it  was  time 
to  think  more  seriously  of  preparing  him  for  Oxford,  where 
his  name  was  put  down  at  Christ  Church.  His  father  hoped 
he  would  go  into  the  Church,  and  eventually  turn  out  a 
combination  of  a  Byron  and  a  bishop — something  like  Dean 
Milman,  only  better.  For  this,  college  was  a  necessary 
preliminary;  for  college,  some  little  schooling.  So  they 
picked  the  best  day-school  in  the  neighbourhood,  that  of  the 
Rev.  Thomas  Dale,  in  Grove  Lane,  Peckham.*  John  Ruskin 
worked  there  rather  less  thein  two  years.  In  1835  he  was 
taken  from  school  in  consequence  of  an  attack  of  pleurisy, 
and  lost  the  rest  of  that  year  from  regular  studies. 

♦  'Schoolmaster,  poet,  author  and  preacher.  In  1835  he  waa  pre- 
sented to  t>he  living  of  St.  Bride's,  Fleet  Street  ;  in  1843  to  a  canonry 
of  St  Paul's  ;  and  he  died  iu  1870,  shortly  after  accepting  the  deanery 
3f  Rochester.'  —  Editor's  preface  to  Three  Letters  and  an  Essay,  by 
7ohD  Buskin,  published  1893. 


MOUNTAIN-WORSHIP  41 

]\rore  intorostin<T  to  him  \him  scliool  was  the  British 
iliisi-uni  coliec'tii)ii  of  iiiiiuials,  wlicre  lie  worked  oira.sioiiaily 
ath  his  Jamicsoirs  Diilionarv.  Hv  tliis  time  he  had  a  fair 
tuileiit's  collection  of  his  own,  and  he  increased  it  by  pickinj; 
p  specimens  at  Matlock,  or  Clifton,  or  in  the  Aljis,  wherever 
le  went,  for  he  was  not  short  of  pocket-money  ;  he  earned 
nouiih  hy  scribbling  even  if  his  father  were  not  always  ready 
o  indulge  his  fancy.  He  took  the  greatest  pains  over  liis 
atalogues,  and  wrote  elaborate  accounts  of  the  various 
minerals  in  a  shorthand  he  invented  out  of  Greek  lettei-s  and 
rystal  forms. 

Grafted  on  this  mineralogy,  and  stimulated  by  the  Swiss 
our,  was  a  new  interest  in  physical  geology,  which  his  father 
0  far  approveil  as  to  give  him  Saussure's  '  \'ovagcs  dans  les 
Upcs'  for  his  birthday  in  1834.  In  this  book  he  found  the 
omi)lement  of  Turner's  vignettes,  something  like  a  key  to 
he  'reason  why'  of  all  the  wonderful  forms  and  marvellous 
loiuitain-architecture  of  the  Alps. 

In  our  hills  of  the  North  these  things  do  not  so  obviously 
all  for  explanation  ;  but  no  intelligent  boy  could  look  long 
nd  intently  at  the  crags  of  I^auterbrunnen  and  the  j)caks  of 
avoy  without  feeling  that  their  twisted  strata  ])resent  a 
robleni  which  arouses  all  his  curiosity.  And  this  boy  was 
y  no  means  content  with  a  superficial  sentiment  of  grandeur, 
le  tried  to  understand  the  causes  of  it,  to  get  at  the  secrets 
f  the  structure,  and  found  poetry  in  that  mystery  of  the 
lountains,  no  less  than  in  their  storms  and  sunrises.  He 
oon  wrote  a  short  essay  on  the  subject,  and  had  the  pleasure 
f  .seeing  it  in  print,  in  Loudon's  Magazine  of  Natural 
Ihtorij  for  March,  1834,  along  with  another  bit  of  his 
'riting,  asking  for  information  on  the  cause  of  the  colour  of 
he  llhine-water.  It  was  rather  characteristic  that  he  began 
is  literary  career  by  asking  (piestions  that  got  no  answer, 
nd  that  his  next  aj)pearance  in  print  was  to  demolish  a 
orrespondcnt  to  the  same  magazine,  whose  accounts  of  rats 
ating  leaden  pipes  was  discredited  by  the  extraordinary 
imensions  which  he  a-s.-ignod.  The  analytic  John  Ruskia 
ras  already  an  enfant  terrible. 


42  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

He  had  already  some  acquaintance  with  Mr.  J.  C.  Loudon, 
F.L.S.,  H.S.,  etc.,  and  he  was  on  the  staff  of  that  versatile 
editor  not  lon<j  afterwards,  and  took  a  lion's  share  of  the 
writing  in  the  Magazine  of  Architecture.  Meanwhile  he  had 
been  introduced  to  another  editor,  and  to  the  publishers 
with  whom  he  did  business  for  many  a  year  to  come.  The 
acciuamtance  was  made  in  a  curious,  accidental  manner.  His 
cousin  Charles,  clerk  to  Smith,  Elder,  and  Co.,  had  the 
opportunity  of  mentioning  the  young  poefs  name  to  Mr. 
Thomas  Pringle,  editor  of  the  '  Friendship's  Offering '  which 
John  had  so  admu-ed  and  imitated.  Mr.  Pringle  came  out 
to  Heme  Hill,  and  was  hospitably  entertained  as  a  brother 
Scot,  as  not  only  an  editor,  but  a  poet  himself, — not  only  a 
poet,  but  a  man  of  respectability  and  piety,  who  had  been  a 
missionary  in  South  Africa.  In  return  for  this  hospitality  he 
gave  a  good  report  of  John's  verses,  and,  after  getting  him  to 
re-write  two  of  the  best  passages  in  the  last  tour,  caiTied 
them  off  for  insertion  in  his  forthcoming  number.  He  did 
more  :  he  carried  John  to  see  the  actual  Mr.  Samuel  Rogei-s, 
whose  verses  had  been  adorned  by  the  great  Turner's 
vignettes.  But  it  seems  that  the  boy  was  not  courtier 
enough — home-bred  as  he  had  been — to  compliment  the 
po(!t  as  poets  love  to  be  complimented ;  and  the  great  man, 
dilettante  as  he  was,  had  not  the  knowledge  of  art  to  be 
honestly  delighted  with  the  boy's  enthusiasm  for  the  wonder- 
ful drawings  which  ha.i  given  his  book  the  best  part  of  its 
value. 

After  the  pleurisy  of  April,  1835,  his  parents  took  him 
abroad  again,  and  he  made  great  preparations  to  use  tlie 
opportunity  to  the  utmost.  He  would  study  geology  in  the 
field,  and  took  Saussure  in  his  trunk  ;  he  would  note  meteor- 
ology :  he  made  a  cyanometer — a  scale  of  blue  to  measure  the 
depth  of  tone,  the  colour  whether  of  Rhine- water  or  of  Alpine 
skies.  He  would  sketch.  Bv  now  he  had  abandoned  the 
•lesire  to  make  IMS.  albums,  after  seeing  himself  in  print,  and 
so  chose  rather  to  imitate  the  imitable,  and  to  follow  Prout, 
this  time  with  careful  outlines  on  the  spot,  than  to  idealize 


MOUNTAIN-WORSHIP  43 

is  notes  in  mimic  Tumcrisin.  He  kept  a  prose  jounial, 
iiiefly  of  geology  and  seenerv,  fts  well  as  a  vei-siiied  dcscrip- 
on,  written  in  a  metre  imitated  from  'Don  Juan,'  but  more 
laborate,  and  somewhat  of  a  four  de  force  in  rhyming.  But 
tiat  poetical  journal  was  dropped  after  he  had  carried  it 
trough  France,  across  the  Jura,  and  to  Chamouni.  The 
rawing  crowiled  it  out,  and  for  the  first  time  1/c  found  him- 
elf  over  Wvi  pons  a.sinoruin  of  art,  as  ready  with  his  pencil  as 
e  had  been  with  his  pen. 

His  route  is  markeil  by  the  drawings  of  that  year,  from 
!hamouni  to  the  St.  Bernard  and  Aosta,  back  to  the  Ober- 
md  and  up  the  St.  Gothard ;  then  back  again  to  Lucerne 
nd  round  by  the  Stelvio  to  Venice  and  Verona,  and  finally 
hrough  the  Tyrol  and  Germany  homewards.  The  ascent  of 
he  St.  Bernard  was  told  in  a  dramatic  sketch  of  great  liuinour 
nd  power  of  characterization,  and  a  letter  to  Richard  Fall 
ecords  the  night  on  the  Rigi,  when  he  saw  the  splendid 
equence  of  storm,  sunset,  moonlight,  and  daybreak,  which 
orms  tiie  subject  of  one  of  the  most  impressive  passages 
if '  Modern  Painters.' 

It  happened  that  Mr.  Pringle  had  a  plate  of  Salzburg 
diich  he  wanted  to  jjrint  in  order  to  make  up  the  volume  of 
Friendship's  Ottering'  for  the  next  Christmas.  He  seems  to 
lave  asked  John  Ruskin  to  furnish  a  copy  of  verses  for  the 
•icture,  and  at  Salzburg,  accordingly,  a  bit  of  rhymed  dcscrip- 
ion  was  written  and  re-written,  and  sent  home  to  the  editor. 
2arly  in  December  the  Ruskins  returned,  and  at  Christmas 
here  came  to  Heme  Hill  a  gorgeous  gilt  morocco  volume. 
To  John  Ruskin,  from  the  Publishers.'  On  opening  it  there 
rere  his  'Antlernach'  and  'St.  Goar,'  and  his  'Salzburg' 
•pposite  a  beautifully-engraved  ])late,  all  hills  and  towers  and 
wats  and  picturesciuely-moving  figures  under  the  sunset,  in 
L'urncr's  manner  more  or  less,  '  Engraved  by  E.  Gootiall  from 
I  drawing  by  W.  Purser.'  It  was  almost  like  being  Mr. 
Ilogers  himself^ 


CHAPTER  V. 

XHE  GERM  OF  'MODERN  PAINTERS.'    (1836.) 

'Ai»«*,  putting  on  the  coat  of  darkness,  approached  near  the  giant, 
and  said  softly,  "Oh,  are  you  there  ?  It  will  not  be  long  ere  I  shall 
wke  you  fast  by  the  beard." ' — Jack  the  Giant-killer. 

"IT^IIOM  t'lie  '  Conversation  '  printed  at  the  end  of  the  first 
A?  volume  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  'Poems,'  we  get  a  life-like 
picture  of  the  Heme  Hill  family  at  this  turning-point 
— the  close  of  John  Ruskin's  childhood.  There  is  the  father, 
sighing  for  beloved  Italy,  and  grumbling  at  London  fogs  and 
business  annoyances  ;  the  mother,  careful  and  troubled  about 
little  things,  but  piously  looking  at  the  bright  side ;  Mary, 
the  good  girl ;  and  John,  the  romantic,  observant,  humorous, 
irrejjiessible  boy — all  sketched  with  the  cleverest  touches  of 
dran)atic  portraiture. 

He  was  now  close  upon  seventeen,  and  it  was  time  to  think 
seriously  of  his  future.  His  father  went  to  Oxford  early  in 
the  year  to  consult  the  authorities  about  matriculation. 
Meantime  they  sent  him  to  Mr.  Dale  for  some  private 
lessons,  and  for  the  lectures  on  logic,  English  literature,  and 
translation,  which  were  given  on  Tuesdays,  Thursdays,  and 
Fridays  at  King's  College,  London.  John  enjoyed  his  new 
circumstances  heartily.  From  voluminous  letters,  it  is  evident 
that  he  was  in  high  spirits  and  in  pleasant  company.  He  was  a 
thorough  boy  among  boys — Matson,  Willoughby,  Tom  Dale, 
and  the  rest.  He  joined  in  their  pranks,  and  contributed  to 
their  amusement  with  liis  ready  good-humoui-  and  miHagging 
diollery. 


THE  GEIIM  OF  'MODERN  PAINTERS'         45 

^f  r.  Dale  tolil  him  there  was  plenty  of  time  before  October, 
Jiul  no  fear  about  his  piissinjx,  if  he  woi  kcd  lianl.  He  found  the 
rtoik  easy,  except  epi^iani-«  riliiii;,  wliich  he  thoiijjht  'exces- 
sively stupid  and  laborious,'  but  helped  himself  out,  when 
icholai-sliip  failed,  with  native  wit.  Some  of  his  exercises 
remain,  not  very  brilliant  Latinity  ;  some  he  saucily  evaded, 
thus : 

'Subject  :  Non  tapere  maximum  tst  malum. 
'  Non  sapere  est  Rrave  ;  sed,  cnm  dura  epii^ammata  oportet 
Scribere,  tunc  seutia  pra-cipue  esse  malum.' 

In  Switzerland  and  Italy,  during  the  autumn  of  1835,  he 
iiad  matle  a  }:;reat  many  drawings,  carefully  outlined  in  pencil 
>r  pen  on  gray  paper,  and  sparsely  touched  with  body  colour, 
in  direct  imitation  of  the  Prout  lithographs.  Prout's  original 
:oloureil  sketches  he  had  seen,  no  doubt,  in  the  exhibition  ; 
but  he  docs  not  seem  to  have  thought  of  imitating  them,  for 
[lis  work  in  this  kind  was  all  intended  to  be  for  illustration  of 
[lis  MS.  books.  The  '  Italy  '  vignettes  likewise,  with  all  their 
in.spiration,  suggested  to  him  only  pen-etching ;  he  was 
hardly  conscious  that  somewhere  there  existed  the  tiny, 
[lelicious,  coloured  pictures  that  Turner  had  made  for  the 
engraver.  Still,  now  that  he  could  draw  really  well,  his  father, 
who  j)aintetl  in  water-coloui-s  himself,  complied  with  the 
demand  for  better  teaching  than  Runciman"s,  went  straight 
to  the  President  of  the  Old  Water-Colour  Society,  and 
engaged  him  for  the  usual  course  of  half  a  dozen  lessons 
at  a  guinea  apiece.  Copley  Fielding,  beside  being  president, 
could  draw  mountains  as  nobody  else  but  Turner  could,  in 
water-colour ;  he  had  enough  mystery  and  poetry  to  interest 
the  younger  Ruskin,  and  enough  resemblance  to  ordinary 
views  of  Nature  to  please  the  elder. 

So  they  both  went  to  Newman  Street  to  his  painting-room, 
and  John  worked  through  the  course,  and  a  few  extra  lessons, 
but,  after  all,  found  Fielding's  art  was  not  what  he  wanted. 
Some  sketches  exist,  showing  the  influence  of  the  spongy 
style  ;  but  his  characteristic  way  of  work  remained  for  him  to 
devise  for  himself,  by  following  at  first  the  highest  masters  h«» 


46  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

knew,  and  by  superadding  to  the  lessons  he  could  get  from 
them  an  expression  of  his  o^vti  sincere  feeling. 

At  the  Royal  Academy  Exhibition  of  18^6  Turner  showed 
the  first  striking  examples  of  his  later  style  in  'Juliet  and  her 
Nurse,'  '  INIercury  and  Ai-gus,"  and  '  Rome  from  IMount  A'-en- 
tine.'  The  strange  idealism,  the  unusualness,  the  mystery,  of 
these  pictures,  united  with  evidence  of  intense  significance  and 
subtle  observation,  appealed  to  young  Ruskin  as  it  appealed 
to  few  other  spectators.  Plere  was  Venice  as  he  saw  her  in 
his  own  dreams ;  here  were  mountains  and  skies  such  as  he 
had  watched,  and  studied,  and  attempted  to  describe  in  his 
own  poems.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  he  had  been 
devoted  to  Nature,  that  he  had  tried  to  set  down  her 
phenomena  in  writing,  and  to  represent  her  forms  with 
severe  draughtsmanship  ;  that  he  had  studied  the  geology  of 
mountains  as  well  as  the  poetry  of  them.  In  Turner  s  work 
he  saw  both  sides  of  his  own  character  reflected,  both  aspects 
of  Nature  recorded.  It  was  not  the  mere  matter-of-fact  map 
of  the  place  which  would  have  appealed  to  merely  matter-of- 
fact  people,  interested  in  science.  Nor  was  it  simply  a  vague 
Miltonian  imagination,  which  would  have  appealed  to  the 
mere  sentimentalist.  But  Turner  had  been  able  to  show, 
and  young  Ruskin  to  appreciate,  the  combination  of  two 
attitudes  with  regard  to  Nature  :  the  scientific,  inquisitive 
about  her  facts,  her  detail  ;  and  the  ■  poetical,  expatiating  in 
effect,  in  breadth  and  mystery. 

There  may  have  been  other  people,  who  appreciated  these 
pictures  ;  if  so,  they  said  nothing.  On  the  contrary,  public 
opinion  regi-etted  this  change  for  the  worse  in  its  old 
favourite,  the  draughtsman  of  Oxford  colleges,  the  painter 
of  shipwrecks  and  castles.  And  BhiclcicooiTs  Magazine,  which 
the  Ruskins,  as  Edinburgh  people  and  admirers  of  Christophei" 
North,  read  with  respect,  spoke  about  Turner,  in  a  review  of 
the  picture-season,  with  that  freedom  of  speech  which  Scotch 
reviewers  claim  as  a  heritage  from  the  days  of  Jeffrey.  Young 
Ruskin  at  once  dashed  oft'  an  answer,  indignant  not  so  much 
that  Turner  was  attacked,  but  that  he  should  have  been 


THE  GERM  OF  'MODERN  PAINTERS'         47 

ttackcxl  bv  a  WTitcr  whose  article  showed  that  he  was  not  a 
iJiHiied  critic  of  £irt,  and  tliat  this  should  have  been  printed 
I    Ma^a.' 

The  critic  had  found  that  Turner  was  'out  of  nature'; 
LuNlvin  tried  to  show  that  the  pictures  were  full  of  facts, 
tuxied  on  the  spot  and  thorougiily  understood,  but  treated 
it^i  poetical  license — Turner  being,  like  Shakespeare,  an 
leal  1st,  in  the  sense  of  allowing  himself  a  free  treatment  of 
is  H^terial.  The  critic  pronounced  Turner's  colour  bad, 
is  €  .ecution  neglected,  and  his  chiaroscuro  childish ;  in 
nswei  to  which  Ruskin  explained  that  Turner's  reasoned 
ystem  was  to  represent  light  and  shade  by  the  contrast  of 
■arm  -tnd  cold  colour,  rather  than  by  the  opposition  of  white 
nd  black  which  other  painters  used.  He  denied  that  his 
xecution  was  other  than  his  aims  necessitated,  and  niain- 
rtincd  that  the  critic  had  no  right  to  force  his  cut-and-dried 
cailemic  rules  of  composition  on  a  great  genius;  at  the 
ame  time  admitting  that  'the  faults  of  Turner  are  numerous, 
nd  perhaps  more  egregious  than  those  of  any  other  great 
xisting  artist ;  but  if  he  has  greater  faults,  he  has  also 
;reater  beauties. 

'  His  imagination  is  Shakespearian  in  its  mightiness.  Had 
he  scene  of  "Juliet  and  her  Nurse"  risen  up  before  the 
iiind  of  a  poet,  and  been  described  in  "  words  that  bum,"  it 
lad  been  the  admiration  of  the  world.  .  .  .  Many-coloured 
iiists  are  floating  above  the  distant  city,  but  such  mists  as 
ou  might  imagine  to  be  ethereal  spirits,  souls  of  the  mighty 
lead  breathed  out  of  the  tombs  of  Italy  into  the  blue  of  her 
iright  heaven,  and  wandering  in  vague  and  infinite  glory 
iround  the  earth  that  they  have  loved.  Instinct  with  the 
leauty  of  uncertain  light,  they  move  and  mingle  among  the 
Mile  stars,  and  rise  up  into  the  brightness  of  the  illimitable 
leavcn,  whose  soft,  .sml  blue  eye  gazes  down  into  the  deep 
raters  of  the  sea  for  ever — that  sea  whose  motionless  and 
iknt  transparency  is  beaming  with  phosphor  light,  that 
•manates  out  of  its  sapphire  serenity  like  bright  dreams 
)reathed  into  tlie  spirit  of  a  deep  sleep.     And  the  spires  of 


48  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKLV 

the  glorious  city  rise  indistinctly  bright  into  those  li/ing 
mists,  like  pyramids  of  pale  fire  from  some  vast  altar;  and 
amidst  the  glory  of  the  dream  there  is,  as  it  were,  the  voice 
of  a  multitude  entering  by  the  eye,  arising  from  the  stillness 
of  the  city  like  the  summer  wind  passing  over  the  leaves  of 
the  forest,  when  a  murmur  is  heard  amidst  their  multitudes. 

'  This,  O  JIaga,  is  the  picture  which  your  critic  has  pro- 
nounced to  be  like  "  models  of  difl'erent  parts  of  \'enice, 
streaked  blue  and  white,  and  thrown  into  a  flour-tub  " !' 

Before  sending  this  reply  to  the  editor  of  Blacknood,  as 
had  been  intended,  it  was  thought  only  right  that  Turner 
should  be  consulted,  as  he  was  the  person  most  interested. 
The  ]\IS.  was  enclosed  to  his  address  in  London,  with  a 
courteous  note  from  Mr.  John  James  Ruskin,  asking  his 
permission  to  publish.  Turner  replied,  expressing  the  scorn 
he  felt  for  anonymous  attacks,  and  jestingly  hinting  that  the 
art-critics  of  the  old  Scotch  school  found  their  '  meal-tub '  in 
danger  fiom  his  '  flour-tub ' ;  but  '  he  never  moved  in  such 
matters,'  so  he  sent  on  the  jMS.  to  ]Mr.  Munro  of  Novar,  who 
had  bought  the  picture. 

Thus  the  essay  was  lost  until  another  copy  turned  up 
among  old  papers,  enabling  us  to  add  an  important  link  to 
the  history  of  a  great  enterprise,  for  this  was  the  'first 
chapter,'  the  germ  of  '  Modern  Painters.'' 

Ten  days  or  so  after  this  episode  John  Ruskin  was  matri- 
culated at  Oxford  (October  18,  1836).  He  tells  the  story  of 
his  fii-st  appearance  as  a  gownsman  in  one  of  those  gossiping 
letters  in  verse  which  show  his  imj^rovisional  humorous  talent 
to  the  best  advantage : 

'A  niglit,  a  day  past  o'er — the  time  drew  near— 
The  moruing  came — I  felt  a  little  queer  ; 
Came  to  the  push  ;  paid  some  tremeudoiis  fees  ; 
Past  ;  and  was  capped  and  guwned  with  marvellous  ease. 
Then  went  to  the  Vice-Chaucellor  to  swear 
Kot  to  wear  boots,  nor  cut  or  cumb  my  hair 
Fantastically — to  shun  all  such  sius 
^  playing  marbles  or  frequenting  ions  ; 


THE  GERM  OF  'MODERN  PAINTERS'         49 

Always  to  walk  with  breeches  black  or  brown  on  , 
Wheu  I  go  out,  to  put  my  cap  and  gown  on ; 
With  other  reguliitioiis  of  the  sort,  meant 
For  the  jiist  orilerni';  of  my  uoinpurtmeut. 
Which  iloiie,  in  less  time  than  I  can  rehearse  it,  I 
Found  myself  member  of  the  University  I' 

In  pursuance  of  his  plan  for  getting  the  best  of  cvcrvHiing, 
Ills  fatlicr  had  chosen  the  best  college,  as  far  as  he  knew, 
that  in  which  social  and  scholastic  advantages  were  believed 
to  he  found  in  pre-eminent  combination,  and  he  had  chosen 
what  was  thought  to  be  the  best  position  in  the  college ;  so 
that  it  was  as  gentleman-commoner  of  Christ  Church  that 
Jolui  Ihi.skin  made  his  entrance  into  the  academic  world. 

In  '  I'ncterita  '  he  hints  that  there  was  some  fear  of  his 
failing  if  he  had  tried  for  the  ordinary  matriculation;  and, 
indeed,  he  was  '  shaky'  in  'scholarship,'  as  Mr.  Dale  reported 
[in  ollicial  terms)  to  the  parents  at  the  end  of  this  King's 
College  year.  Mre.  Dale  roundly  told  Mr.  J.  J.  lluskin  that 
John  had  been  neglected  between  ten  and  twelve,  rellecting 
thereby  upon  Dr.  Andrews.  But  if  his  classics  were  not  up 
to  the  mark,  his  'English'  was  very  far  beyond  the  average, 
md  examinei-s  of  iilty  years  ago  did  not  so  entirely  neglect 
'  the  modern  side'  as  to  ignore  clever  essay-writing. 

After  matriculation,  the  lluskins  made  a  fortnight's  tour 
to  Southampton  and  the  coast,  and  returned  to  Heme  Hill, 
lohn  went  back  to  King's  College,  and  in  December  was 
jxamined  in  the  subjects  of  his  lectures.  He  wrote  to  his 
"ather  on  Christnuis  Eve  about  the  examination  in  English 
iterature :  '  The  students  were  numerous,  and  so  were  the 
questions ;  the  room  was  hot,  the  papers  long,  the  pens  bad, 
;he  ink  pale,  and  the  interrogations  dillicult.  It  lasted  only 
;hree  hours.  I  wrote  answers  in  very  magnificent  style  to  al] 
:he  jjaestions  except  three  or  four;  gave  in  my  paper  and 
leanl  no  more  of  the  matter :  sic  tratuiennt  bore-ia  mundi.^ 
lie  goes  on  to  mention  his  'very  longitudinal  essay,'  which, 
lince  no  other  essays  are  reported  in  his  letters  about  King's 
L'ollege,  must  be  the  paper  published  in  18Uii,  in  ansvver 
M  the  nuestion,   '  Does  the  perusal  of  works  of  fiction  act 


50  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

favourably  or  unuivourably  on  the  moral  character  ?  It  would 
have  been  strange  if  any  college  had  refused  a  candidate  with 
such  evidence  of  brains  and  the  will  to  use  them. 

At  his  farewell  interview  with  ]\Ir.  Dale  he  was  asked,  as 
he  writes  to  his  fiither,  what  books  he  had  read,  and  replied 
with  a  pretty  long  list,  including  Quintilian  and  Grotius. 
iVIr.  Dale  inquired  what  'light  books'  he  was  taking  to 
Oxford :  '  Saussure,  Humboldt,  and  other  works  on  natural 
philosophy  and  geology,'  he  answered.  'Then  he  asked  if 
I  ever  read  any  of  the  modem  fashionable  novels ;  on  this 
point  I  thought  he  began  to  look  positive,  so  I  gave  him 
a  negative,  with  the  exception  of  Bulwer's,  and  now  and 
then  a  laughable  one  of  Theodore  Hook's  or  Captain 
Marrvat's.'  And  so,  with  much  excellent  advice  about 
exercise  and  sleep,  and  the  way  to  win  the  Newdigate,  he 
parted  from  Mr.  Dale. 

This  Christmas  was  marked  by  his  first  introduction  to  the 
scientific  world.  Mr.  Charlesworth,  of  the  British  IMuseum, 
invited  him  to  a  meeting  of  the  Geological  Society  (January  4, 
1837),  with  promise  of  introductions  to  Buckland  and  Lyell. 
The  meeting,  as  he  wi-ote,  was  '  amusing  and  interesting,  and 
very  comfortable  for  frosty  weather,  as  Mr.  IVIurchison  got 
warm  and  Mr.  Greenau  (sic)  witty.  The  warmth,  however, 
got  the  better  of  the  wit.' 

The  IVIeteorological  Society  also  claimed  his  attention,  and 
in  this  month  he  contributed  a  paper  which  '  Richard  says 
will  frighten  them  out  of  their  meteorological  wits,  contain- 
ing six  close-written  folio  pages,  and  having,  at  its  conclusion, 
a  sting  in  its  tail,  the  very  agreeable  announcement  that  it 
only  commences  the  subject.' 


J 


CHAPTER  Vt 

A  LOVE-STORY.    (183C-1839.) 

'  I  loTed  a  certain  person  ardently,  and  my  love  was  not  returned. 
Yet  out  of  that  I  have  written  these  songs.'— Leaves  of  Grass. 

EARLY  in  1836  the  quiet  of  Heme  Hill  was  fluttered  by 
a  lonpf-pioiniscd,  lonjj-postponcd  visit.  Mr.  Doniccq 
at  last  broun;ht  his  four  younger  daughters  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  their  English  friends.  The  eldest  sister  had 
lately  been  inanieil  to  a  Count  Maison,  heir  to  a  peer  of 
France ;  for  Mr.  Doniecq,  thanks  in  gieat  measure  to  his 
partner's  energy  and  talents,  was  ]iros|)erous  and  wealthy, 
and  moved  in  the  enchanted  circles  of  Parisian  society. 

To  a  romantic  schoolboy  in  a  London  suburb  the  appari- 
tion was  dazzling.  Any  of  the  sisters  would  have  charmed 
liim,  but  the  eldest  of  the  four,  Adcle  Clotilde,  bewitched 
bim  at  once  with  her  graceful  figure  and  that  oval  face  which 
ivas  so  admired  in  those  times.  She  was  fair,  too — another 
ccommendation.  He  was  on  the  brink  of  seventeen,  at  the 
■ipe  moment,  and  he  fell  passionately  in  love  with  her.  She 
*'as  only  fifteen,  and  did  not  understand  this  adoration, 
inspokcn  and  unexpressed  except  by  intensified  shyness  ;  for 
16  was  a  very  shy  boy  in  the  drawing-room,  though  brimming 
)ver  with  life  and  fun  among  his  schoolfellows.  His  mother's 
deals  of  education  did  not  include  French  gallantry  ;  he  felt 
it  a  loss  Ixfore  these  Paris-bred,  Pai-is-drcssed  young  ladies, 
md  encumbered  by  the  very  strength  of  his  new-found 
lassion. 
4-2 


>2  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

And  yet  he  possessed  advantages,  if  he  had  known  how  to 
ase  them.  He  was  tall  and  active,  light  and  lithe  in  gesture, 
flot  a  clumsy  hobbledehoy.  He  had  the  face  that  caught  the 
eye,  in  Rome  a  few  years  later,  of  Keats'  Severn,  no  mean 
judge,  surely,  of  faces  and  poets'  faces.  He  was  undeniably 
clever;  he  knew  all  about  minerals  and  mountains;  he  was 
quite  an  artist,  and  a  printed  poet.  But  these  things  weigh 
little  with  a  girl  of  fifteen  who  wants  to  be  amused  ;  and  so 
she  only  laughed  at  John. 

He  tried  to  amuse  her,  but  he  tried  too  seriously.  He 
WTote  a  story  to  read  her,  '  Leoni,  a  Legend  of  Italy '  (for  of 
course  she  understood  enough  English  to  be  read  to,  no  doubt 
to  be  wooed  in,  seeing  her  mother  was  English).  The  story 
was  of  brigands  and  true  lovers,  the  thing  that  was  popular 
in  the  romantic  period.  The  costumery  and  mannerisms  of 
the  little  romance  are  out  of  date  now,  and  seem  ridiculous 
as  an  old-fashioned  dress  does,  though  Mr.  Pringle  and  the 
public  were  pleased  with  it  then,  when  it  was  printed  in 
'  Friendship's  Offering.'  But  the  note  of  passion  was  too  real 
for  the  girl  of  fifteen,  and  she  only  laughed  the  more. 

When  they  left,  he  was  alone  with  his  poetry  again.  But 
now  he  had  no  interest  in  his  tour-book  ;  even  the  mountains, 
for  the  time,  had  lost  their  power,  and  all  his  plans  of  great 
works  were  dropped  for  a  new  style  of  verse — the  love-poems 
of  1836. 

His  father,  from  whom  he  kept  nothing,  approved  the 
verses,  and  did  not  disapprove  his  views  on  the  young  lady. 
Indeed,  it  is  quite  plain,  from  the  correspondence  of  the  two 
gentlemen,  that  Mr.  Domecq  intended  his  friend  and  partner's 
son  to  become  his  own  son-in-law.  He  had  the  greatest 
respect  for  the  Ruskins,  and  every  reason  for  desiring  to  link 
their  fortunes  still  more  closely  with  those  of  his  own  family. 
But  to  Mrs.  Ruskin,  with  her  religious  feelings,  it  was  intoler- 
able, unbelievable,  that  the  son  whom  she  had  brought  up  in 
the  nurture  and  admonition  of  the  strictest  Protestantism 
should  fix  his  heart  on  an  alien  in  race  and  creed.  The 
wonder  is  that  their  relations  were  not  more  strained  ;  there 


A  LOVT^-STORY  53 

are  few  voung  men  who  would  have  kept  unbroken  allcnjiance 
to  a  mother  whose  synipathv  f'aileil  thcni  at  such  a  crisis. 

To  end  the  story  we  must  anticipate  a  little  ;  there  are  so 
many  strands  in  this  complex  life  that  they  cannot  be  followed 
all  at  once.  A\'hen  we  have  traced  this  one  out,  we  can 
resume  the  history  of  John  lluskin  as  student  and  poet  and 
youthful  savant. 

As  the  year  went  on  his  passion  seemed  to  grow  in  the 
absence  of  the  beloved  object.  His  only  plan  of  winning  her 
was  to  win  his  spui-s  first ;  but  as  what  ?  Clearly  his  forte,  it 
seemed,  was  in  writing.  If  he  could  be  a  successful  writer  of 
romances,  of  songs,  of  plays,  surely  she  would  not  refuse  him. 
And  so  he  began  another  romantic  story,  '  Nelasijuez,  the 
Novice,'  opening  with  the  monks  of  St.  Bernard,  among 
whom  had  been,  so  the  tale  ran,  a  mysterious  member,  whose 
papers,  when  discovered,  made  him  out  the  hero  of  atlven- 
tures  in  Venice.  He  began  a  play,  which  was  to  be  another 
great  work,  '  Marcolini.'  To  this  he  has  alluded  in  terms 
which  leave  one  in  doubt  whether  its  author  has  re-read  it 
since  it  was  written  under  the  mulberry-tree  in  Heme  Hill 
garden  that  sunnner  of  1836.  Partly  Shakesperian,  but  more 
Byronic  in  form,  it  does  not  depend  merely  on  description, 
but  shows  a  dramatic  power  of  character  and  dialogue  indi- 
cated by  many  earlier  attempts  at  stories  and  scenes.  The 
weakness  of  '  Marcolini '  is  in  the  arrangement  and  disposition 
of  the  plot ;  he  has  no  playwright's  eye  for  situations.  But 
tlie  conversation  is  animated,  and  the  characters  finely  drawn, 
with  more  discrimination  than  one  would  expect  from  so 
young  an  author. 

This  work  wjis  interrupted  at  the  end  of  Act  HI.  by  press- 
ing calls  to  other  studies,  which  have  been  described  ;  and 
tlien  by  the  attempt  to  win  the  distinction  he  sought  in  the 
Newdigate  prize  at  Oxford.  But  it  was  not  that  he  had 
forgotten  Allele.  From  time  to  time  he  wrote  verses  to  her 
or  about  her ;  and  as  in  18.'i8  she  was  .sent  to  school  with  her 
sisters  at  Newliali,  near  Chelmsford,  to  '  finish'  her  in  English, 
ill  Hiat  August  he  saw  her  again.     She  liad  lost  some  of  her 


U  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

first  girlish  prettiness,  but  that  made  no  difference.  And 
when  the  Domecqs  came  to  Heme  Hill  at  Christmas,  he 
was  as  deeply  in  love  as  ever.  But  she  still  laughed  at 
him. 

His  father  was  fond  of  her,  liked  all  the  sisters,  and 
thought  much  of  them  as  girls  of  fine  character,  but  he 
liked  Adcle  best.  He  seems  to  have  been  fond  of  his  partner, 
too,  worked  very  hard  in  his  interests,  and  behaved  very  well 
to  his  heirs  afterwards  through  many  yeai-s  of  responsible  and 
'difficult  management  of  their  business.  And  at  this  time, 
when  he  went  down  to  the  convent  school  in  Essex,  as  he 
often  did,  he  must  have  had  opportunities  for  seeing  how 
hopeless  the  case  was.  Mr.  Domecq  recognised  it,  too,  but 
thought,  it  seems  (they  manage  these  things  differently  in 
France),  that  any  of  his  daughters  would  do  as  well,  and 
early  in  1839  entertained  an  offer  from  Baron  Duquesne,  a 
rich  and  handsome  young  Frenchman.  They  kept  this  from 
John,  fearing  he  would  break  down  at  the  news,  so  fully  did 
they  recognise  the  importance  of  the  affair.  They  even 
threw  pther  girls  in  his  way.  It  was  not  difficult,  for  by  now 
he  had  made  his  mark  in  magazine  literature,  and  was  a 
steady,  rising  young  man,  with  considerable  expectations. 
But  he  could  not  think  of  any  other  girl. 

In  February  or  March,  1839,  IMr.  Domecq  died.  The 
Maisons  came  to  England,  and  the  marriage  was  proposed. 
Adcle  stayed  at  Chelmsford  until  September,  when  he  wrote 
the  long  poem  of  'Farewell,'  dated  the  eve  of  their  last  meet- 
ing and  parting.  One  sees  that  he  has  been  reading  his 
Shelley  ;  one  sees  that  he  knows  he  is  writing  'poetry';  but 
at  the  same  time  it  is  certain  that  his  disappointment  was 
deep,  after  nearly  four  years  of  hope  and  effort  and  real 
fidelity  at  a  period  of  life  when,  if  ever,  a  lover's  unfiiithfuj- 
ncss  might  be  easily  pardoned,  placed  as  he  was  among  new 
scenes  and  new  people,  among  success  and  flattery  and  aAvaken- 
ing  ambitions.  But  in  this  disappointment  there  is  no  anger, 
no  bitterness,  no  reproach.  She  is  still  to  be  his  goddoss  of 
stone — calm  and  cold,  but  never  to  be  forgotten. 


A  LOVE-STORY  55 

At  twenty  young  men  do  not  die  of  love;  but  I  find  tlint 
a  fortnight  after  writing  this  he  was  taken  seriously  ill. 
During  the  winter  of  1839-W  the  negotiations  for  the 
marriage  in  Paris  went  on.  It  took  place  in  JIarch.  They 
kept  the  news  from  him  as  long  as  thev  could,  for  he  was  in 
the  schools  next  Easter  term,  and  Mr.  Brown  (his  college 
tutor)  had  seemed  to  hope  he  would  get  a  Firet,  so  his  mother 
wrote  to  licr  husband.  In  Mav  he  was  pronounced  consump- 
tive, and  had  to  give  up  Oxford,  and  all  hope  of  the  distinc- 
tion for  which  he  had  laboured,  and  with  that  any  plans  that 
[night  have  been  entertained  for  his  distinction  in  the  Church. 
And  his  parents'  letters  of  the  period  put  it  beyond  a  doubt 
that  this  first  great  calamity  of  his  life — how  far-reaching 
:annot  well  be  told — was  the  direct  consequence  of  that  un- 
fortunate matchmaking. 

Eor  nearly  two  years  he  was  dragged  about  from  place  to 
:>lace,  and  from  doctor  to  doctor,  in  search  of  health.  Thanks 
partly  to  wise  treatment,  more  to  new  faces,  and  most  to  a 
plucky  determination  to  employ  himself  usefully  with  his  pen 
ind  his  pencil,  he  gradually  freed  himself  from  the  spell,  and 
lifty  years  afterwards  coulil  look  back  upon  the  story  as  a 
3retty  comedy  of  his  youthful  days.  How  pretty,  at  any 
rate,  the  actress  must  have  been,  if  we  do  not  believe  his  own 
ivords,  and  taste,  we  can  judge  from  a  little  siile-glimpse  of 
:he  seijuel  aHbrded  us  by  a  writer  whose  connois-seurship  in 
pretty  girls  we  can  trust,  Mrs.  llichmond  Ritchie  (Miss 
rhackeray) : 

'The  writer*  can  picture  to  herself  something  of  the 
:harni  of  these  most  charming  sistcre ;  for  once,  by  chance, 
travelling  on  Lake  Ionian,  she  found  herself  watching  a  lady 
ftho  Silt  at  the  steamers  end,  a  beautiful  young  woman,  all 
Ircsscd  in  pale  gray,  with  a  long  veil  floating  on  the  wind, 
»ho  sat  motionless  and  absorbed,  looking  towards  the  distant 
lills,  not  unlike  the  vision  of  some  guiding,  wistful  Ariel  at 
the  prow,  while  the  steamer  sped  its  way  between  the  banks, 
rhe  story  of  the  French  sisters  has  gained  an  added  interest 
•  In  Ilarptr't  Magazine,  March,  1890. 


66  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

from  the  remembrr-nce  of  those  dark,  lovely  eyes,  that  charm- 
ing countenance ;  for  afterwards,  when  I  knew  her  better,  the 
lady  told  me  that  her  mother  had  been  a  Domecq,  and  had 
once  lived  with  her  sisters  in  ]Mr.  Ruskin's  home.  Circum- 
stances had  divided  them  in  after-days,  but  all  the  children 
of  the  family  had  been  brought  up  to  know  Mr.  Ruskin  by 
name,  and  to  love  and  appreciate  his  books.  The  lady  sent 
him  many  messages  by  me,  which  I  delivered  in  after-days, 
when,  alas  !  it  was  from  Mr.  Ruskin  himself  I  learned  that 
the  beautiful  traveller — Isabelle,*  he  called  her — had  passed 
away  before  her  time  to  those  distant  hills  where  all  our 
journeys  end.' 

♦  Daughter  of  Cotntesse  Maison  (Mathilde  Domecq).  The  sister* 
all  married  Frenchiueu  of  title,  and  were  well  known  and  highly  le- 
spected  iu  f  leuch  society.     Mme.  Da(jue;jue  has  long  been  deaiL 


ciiArTER  vn. 

•KATA  PHDSIN.*    (1837, 1838.) 

•  And  yoii,  painter,  who  are  desirous  of  great  practice,  nnderstand 
that  if  jou  do  uot  rest  it  on  the  good  foundation  of  Nature,  you  will 
labour  with  little  houour  and  less  profit  ;  and  if  you  do  it  on  a  good 
grniiiid,  your  works  will  be  many  and  good,  to  your  great  honour  and 
ad  vanUige.'— Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

DEVOTED  as  she  was  to  her  husband,  Mrs.  Ruskin  felt 
bound  to  watch  over  her  son  at  Oxford.  It  was  his 
health  she  was  always  anxious  about;  doctoring  was 
her  forte.  lie  liad  suffered  from  pleurisy ;  caught  cold 
ejisiiy  ;  wiis  feared  to  be  weak  in  the  lungs ;  and  nobody  but 
his  niotlier  unilerstootl  him.  So  taking  Mary  Uichardson, 
she  went  up  with  him  (January,  18U7),  and  settled  in 
lodgings  at  Mr.  Adams'  in  the  Iligh.  Her  plan  was  to 
make  no  intru>ion  on  his  college  life,  but  to  require  hinj 
to  report  himself  every  day  to  her.  She  would  not  be  dull ; 
she  could  drive  about  and  see  the  country,  and  to  that  end 
took  her  o»  n  carriage  to  Oxford,  the  '  fly '  w  hidi  had  been 
set  u])  two  years  before.  John  hail  been  rather  sarcastic 
about  its  genteel  a])pearance.  '  No  one,'  he  said,  '  woulil  sit 
down  to  tiraw  the  form  of  it.'  However,  she  anil  Alary  drove 
to  Oxford,  and  reckoned  that  it  would  only  mean  fifteen 
montlis'  absence  from  home  altogether,  great  part  of  which 
deserted  papa  would  spend  in  travelling. 

John  went  into  residence  in  IVckwater.  At  first  he  spent 
every  evening  with  his  mother  and  went  to  bed,  as  Mr.  Uale 
had  told  him,  at  ten.     After  a  few  days  Professor  Powell 


58  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

asked  him  to  a  musical  evening;  he  excused  himself,  and 
explained  why.  The  Professoi-  asked  to  be  introduced, 
whereupon  says  his  mother,  '  I  shall  return  the  call,  but 
make  no  visiting  acquaintances.' 

The  '  early-to-bed '  plan  was  also  impracticable.  It  was 
not  long  before  somebody  came  hammering  at  his  'oak' just 
as  he  was  getting  to  sleep,  and  next  morning  he  told  his 
mother  that  he  really  ought  to  have  a  glass  of  wine  to  give. 
So  she  sent  him  a  couple  of  bottles  over,  and  that  very  night 
'  Mr.  Liddell  and  Mr.  Gaisford '  (junior)  turned  up.  'John 
was  glad  he  had  wine  to  ofTer,  but  they  would  not  take  any ; 
they  had  come  to  see  sketches.  John  says  Mr.  Liddell 
looked  at  them  with  the  eye  of  a  judge  and  the  delight  of 
an  artist,  and  swore  they  were  the  best  sketches  he  had 
ever  seen.  John  accused  him  of  quizzing,  but  he  answered 
that  he  really  thought  them  excellent.''  John  said  that  it 
was  the  scenes  which  made  the  pictures ;  Mr.  Liddell  knew 
better,  and  spread  the  fame  of  tliem  over  the  college.  Next 
morning  'Lord  Euilyn  and  Lord  Ward  called  to  look  at  the 
sketches,'  and  when  the  undergraduates  had  dropped  in  one 
after  another,  the  Dean  himself,  even  the  terrible  Gaisford, 
sent  for  the  portfolio,  and  returned  it  with  august  approval. 

Liddell,  afterwards  Dean  of  Christ  Church  ;  Newton,  after- 
wards Sir  Charles,  of  the  British  Museum  ;  Acland,  afterwards 
Sir  Henry,  the  Professor  of  INIedicine,  thus  became  John 
Ruskin's  friends :  the  first  disputing  with  him  on  the  burning 
question  of  Raphael's  art,  but  from  the  outset  an  admirer  of 
'Modem  Painters,'  and  always  an  advocate  of  its  author;  the 
second  differing  from  him  on  the  claims  of  Greek  archaeology, 
but  nevertheless  a  close  acquaintance  through  many  long 
years;  and  the  third  for  half  a  century  the  best  of  friends 
and  counsellors.  It  was  a  happy  destiny  that  brought  him 
to  Christ  Chui-ch  among  such  men. 

The  dons  of  his  college  he  was  less  likely  to  attract. 
Dr.  Buckland,  the  famous  geologist,  and  still  more  famous 
lecturer  and  talker,  took  notice  of  him  and  employed  him  in 
drawing  diagrams  for  lectures.     The  Rev.  Walter  Brown,  his 


'KATxV  PHUSIN'  69 

:ollo!je  tutor,  afterwards  Rci-tor  of  Wenillebiirv,  won  liis 
;ooil-wiIl  and  remained  his  friend.  His  private  tutor,  the 
Kev.  Osborne  Gordon,  was  always  regarded  with  nfJ'cctionate 
respect.  But  the  rest  seem  to  have  looked  upon  him  as  a 
ioniewhat  desultory  and  erratic  young  genius,  who  might  or 
(iiij^ht  not  turn  out  well.  Tor  their  iinmeiliate  purpose,  the 
schools,  and  Church  or  State  preferment,  he  seemed  hardly 
the  fittest  man. 

The  gentlemen-commoners  of  Christ  Church  were  a  puzzle 
to  Mrs.  Uuskin;  noblemen  of  sporting  tastes,  who  rode  and 
betted  ami  drank,  and  got  their  impositions  written  '  by  men 
attached  to  the  Univei-sity  for  the  purpose,  at  Is.  6d.  to 
2s.  Gd.,  so  you  have  only  to  reckon  how  much  you  will  give 
to  avoid  chapel.'  And  yet  they  were  very  nice  fellows.  If 
they  began  by  riding  on  .lohirs  back  round  the  quad,  they 
;lid  not  give  him  the  cold  shoulder — quite  the  reverse.  He 
ttius  a.sked  everywhere  to  wine;  he  beat  them  all  at  chess; 
md  they  invailed  him  at  all  hours.  '  It  does  little  good 
sporting  fiis  oak,'  wrote  his  mother,  describing  liow  Lord 
L)esj\rt  and  Grimston  climbed  in  through  his  window  while 
he  was  hani  at  work.  '  lliey  say  midshipmen  and  Oxonians 
have  more  lives  than  a  cat,  and  they  have  need  of  them  if 
they  run  such  risks.' 

Once,  but  once  only,  he  was  guilty,  as  an  innocent  fresh- 
man, of  a  breacli  of  the  laws  of  his  order.  He  wrote  too 
ijood  an  essay.     lie  tells  his  father : 

'O.XFORP, 

'  Fehruary,  1837. 
'  Yesterday  (Saturday)  forenoon  the  Sub-dean  sent  for  me, 
took  me  up  into  his  study,  sat  down  with  me,  and  read  over 
my  essjiy,  pointing  out  a  few  verbal  alterations  and  suggesting 
improvements;  I,  of  course,  expressed  my.self  highly  grateful 
For  his  condescension.  Going  out,  I  met  Strangeways.  "So 
you're  going  to  read  out  to-day,  Uuskin.  Do  go  it  at  a  good 
rate,  my  good  fellow.  Why  do  you  write  such  dcvili.sh  good 
ones.'"  Went  a  little  farther  and  met  March.  "Mind  you 
itand  on  the  top  of  the  desk,  Uuskin ;  gentlemen-commoners 


60  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

never  stand  on  the  steps.'"  I  asked  him  whether  it  would 
look  more  dignilied  to  stand  head  or  heels  uppermost.  He 
advised  heels.  Then  met  Desart.  "  We  must  have  a  grand 
supper  after  this,  Ruskin ;  gentlemen-commoners  always 
have  a  flare-up  after  reading  their  themes.'"  I  told  him  [ 
supposed  he  wanted  to  "  pison  my  rum-and-water.'" ' 

And  though  they  teased  him  unmercifully,  he  seems  to 
have  given  as  good  as  he  got.  At  a  big  wine  after  the 
event,  they  asked  him  whether  his  essay  cost  2s.  6d.  or  5s. 
What  he  answered  is  not  reported ;  but  they  proceeded  to 
make  a  bonfire  in  Peckwater,  while  he  judiciously  escaped 
to  bed. 

So  for  a  home-bred  boy,  thrown  into  rather  difficult 
surroundings,  his  first  appearance  at  Christ  Church  was  dis- 
tinctly a  success.  'Collections''  in  March,  1837,  went  off 
creditably  for  him.  Hussey,  Kynaston,  and  the  Dean  said 
he  had  taken  great  pains  with  his  woik,  and  had  been  a 
pattern  of  regularity ;  and  he  ended  his  first  terra  very  well 
pleased  with  his  college  and  with  himself. 

In  his  second  term  he  had  the  honour  of  being  elected  to 
the  Christ  Church  Club,  a  very  small  and  very  exclusive 
society  of  the  best  men  in  the  college  :  '  Simeon,  Acland,  and 
Mr.  Denison  proposed  him ;  Lord  Carew  and  Broadhurst 
supported.''  And  he  had  the  opportunity  of  meeting  men 
of  mark,  as  the  following  letter  recounts.  He  writes  on 
AprU  22,  1837 : 

♦  My  de.\rest  Father, 

'  When  I  returned  from  hall  yesterday — where  a 
servitor  read,  or  pretended  to  read,  and  Decanus  growled  at 
him,  "  Speak  out !" — 1  found  a  note  on  my  table  from  Dr. 
Buckland,  requesting  the  pleasure  of  my  company  to  dinner, 
at  six,  to  meet  two  celebrated  geologists,  Lord  Cole  and 
Sir  Philip  Egerton.  I  immediately  sent  a  note  of  thanks 
and  acceptance,  dressed,  and  was  there  a  minute  after  the 
last  stroke  of  Tom.      Alone  for  five   minutes  in  Dr.  B's 


♦KATA  PHUSIN'  61 

rawin<j-room,  who  soon  nflcrwards  came  in  with  Lord  Cole, 
itrodiHcil  ine,  and  saiti  tliat  as  we  were  both  geolo<;;ists  he 
id  not  hesitate  to  leave  us  to;;cther  wiiile  he  did  what  he 
irtainlv  verv  niui-h  rc(|uir«i — bruslieil  up  a  little.  Lord 
ble  and  I  were  talkiiij;  about  some  fossils  newly  arrived 
•om  India.  lie  reniarkcii  in  the  course  of  convei^sation  that 
is  fricnil  Dr.  H.'s  room  was  cleaner  and  in  better  order  tiian 
e  remembered  ever  to  have  seen  it.  There  was  not  a  chair 
t  to  sit  upon,  all  covered  with  dust,  broken  alabiuster 
andlcsticks,  withered  flower- leaves,  frogs  cut  out  of  ser- 
entine,  broken  models  of  fallen  temples,  torn  papere,  old 
lanuscripts,  stufl'ed  reptiles,  deal  boxes,  brown  paper,  wool, 
ow  anil  cotton,  and  a  considerable  variety  of  other  articles. 
n  came  Mi-s.  Ihickland,  then  Sir  I'iiilip  Egerton  and  his 
irother,  whom  I  had  seen  at  Dr.  B.'s  lecture,  though  he  is 
lot  an  undergraduate.  I  was  talking  to  him  till  dinner-time. 
'Vhile  we  were  sitting  over  our  wine  after  dinner,  in  came 
Jr.  Daubcny,  one  of  the  most  celebrated  geologists  of  the 
lav — a  curious  little  animal,  looking  through  its  spectacles 
.ith  an  air  very  (Ihtin^-iu'c — and  Mr.  Darwin,  whom  I  hat! 
learil  rcail  a  paper  at  the  Geological  Society.  He  and  I 
;ot  together,  and  talked  all  the  evening.' 

Tliere  is  no  quizzing  of  Mr.  Darwin ;  John  Ruskin  knew  a 
irst-rate  man  when  he  met  him. 

The  long  vacation  of  1837  was  pa.sscd  in  a  tour  through 
he  North,  during  which  his  advanced  knowledge  of  art  waa 
hown  in  a  series  of  admirable  drawings.  Their  subjects  are 
hicrty  arcliitectural,  though  a  few  mountain  drawings  are 
bund  in  his  sketch-book  for  that  sunnner. 

'Hie  interest  in  ancient  and  picturcsipie  buildings  was  no 
lew  thing,  and  it  seems  to  have  Ikch  the  bniiich  of  art-studv 
ifhich  was  chiefly  encouragetl  by  his  father.  During  this 
our  among  C'lmibcrland  cottages  and  Yorksiiirc  ablev.s,  a 
)lan  was  formed  for  a  series  of  papers  on  architecture,  jierhnps 
n  answer  to  an  imitation  from  his  friend  Mr.  Loudon,  who 
lad  stalled  an  arcliitectural  magazine.     In  the  summer  he 


62  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

began  to  ^vrite  '  The  Poetry  of  Architecture  ;  or,  The  Archi- 
tecture of  the  Nations  of  Europe  considered  in  its  Association 
with  Natural  Scenery  and  National  Character,'  and  the 
papei-s  were  worked  off  month  by  month  from  Oxford,  or 
wherever  he  might  be,  with  a  steadiness*  that  showed  his 
power  of  detaching  himself  from  immediate  sunouniiings, 
like  any  experienced  UUtrateur.  This  piece  of  work  is  a 
valuable  link  in  the  development  of  his  'Seven  Lamps,' 
anticipating  many  of  his  conclusions  of  later  days,  and  ex- 
hibiting his  literary  style  as  very  near  maturity.  It  deals 
chiefly  with  the  countries  he  had  visited — the  English  Lake- 
land, France,  Switzerland,  and  North  Italy — but  some  little 
notice  of  Spain  suggests  occasional  collaboration  with  his  father. 

The  papers  terminated  with  the  termination  of  the 
magazine  in  January,  1839.  They  are  bright  and  amusing, 
full  of  pretty  description  and  shrewd  thoughts.  They  parade 
a  good  deal  of  classical  learning  and  travelled  experience; 
readers  of  the  magazine  took  their  author  for  some  dilettante 
Don  at  Oxford.  The  editor  did  not  wish  the  illusion  to  be 
dispelled,  so  John  lluskin  had  to  choose  a  nom  de  2)lume. 
He  called  himself  '  Kata  Fhusin '  ('  according  to  nature '),  for 
he  had  begun  to  read  some  Aristotle.  No  phrase  would 
have  better  expressed  his  point  of  view,  that  of  common- 
sense  extended  by  experience,  and  confirmed  by  the  appeal 
to  matters  of  fact,  rather  than  to  any  authority,  or  tradition, 
or  connnittee  of  taste,  or  abstract  principles. 

A^'hile  these  pajjers  were  in  process  of  publication  '  Kata 
Phusin '  plunged  into  his  fii-st  controversy.  Mr.  Arthur 
Pareey  had  published  a  treatise  on  '  Persjicctive  Rectified,' 
with  a  new  discovery  that  was  to  upset  all  previous  practice. 
He  said,  in  ett'ect,  that  when  you  look  at  a  tower  the  top  is 
farther  from  the  eye  than  the  bottom,  therefore  it  must  look 
narrower,  theiefore  it  should  be  drawn  so.  This  w;is  '  Parsey"s 
Convergence  of  Perpendiculare,'  according  to  which  vertical 

*  Though  not  without  labour.  His  mother,  writing  Febru.iry  15, 
J838,  announces  that  the  'chapter  on  Chimneys'  has  been  sent  tc 
London,  and  expresses  her  thankfulness  that  it  is  '  off  his  mind.' 


•KATA  PHUSIN'  63 

incs  should  have  a  vanishinjif  point,  even  though  they  arc 
s.siiiiictl  to  be  panillol  to  the  plane  of  the  picture. 

lie  hati  been  discussed  by  one,  and  ridiculed  by  another,  of 
lie  contributors  to  the  nini^azine,  when  '  Kata  Phusin  '  joined 
!i  with  the  remark  that  the  convergence  is  perceptible  only 
lien  we  stand  too  close  to  the  tower  to  draw  it  (when,  of 
ourse,  the  verticals  are  not  parallel  to  the  plane  of  the 
icturc),  and  that  we  never  can  draw  it  at  all  until  we  are  so 
XT  away  that  the  eye  is  practically  ecjuidistant  from  all  parts, 
op  ami  bottom.  You  see  that  in  reflections  too,  he  said  • 
lie  vertical  lines  do  converge  when  your  eye  ranges  roimd  the 
orizon,  and  from  zenith  to  nadir  ;  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact 
I  a  picture  we  include  so  small  a  piece  of  the  whole  field  ot 
ision  that  the  convergence  is  practically  reduced  to  nil. 

A  writer  signing  himself  'Q.'  gravely  reviews  the  situation. 
nd  gives  the  palm  to  '  Kata  Phusin';  yet,  he  says,  the  con- 
crgence  is  there.  To  whiih  'Kata  Phusin'  answers  that  of 
aurse  it  is,  and  all  artists  know  it;  but  they  know  also  that 
he  limited  angle  of  their  picture's  scope  makes  away  with 
le  dilliculty. 

Pai-sey  was  not  satisfied.  '  Kata  Phusin  '  appeals  to  obser- 
ation.  lie  says  he  is  looking  out  of  his  window  at  one  of 
le  most  noble  buildings  in  Oxford,  and  the  vertical  lines  of 
;  do  fall  exactly  on  the  sashes  of  his  window-frame.  He 
iggests  a  new  line  of  defence — that,  to  see  a  picture  properly, 
le  eye  must  be  opjiosite  the  point  of  sight,  and  the  angle  of 
ision  is  the  same  for  the  jiicture  placed  at  the  right  distance 
5  for  the  actual  scene  ;  so  wliatever  convergence  there  is  in 
le  scene,  tiicre  is  also  in  the  picture,  when  rightly  viewed. 
Lnd  so  the  discussion  dragged  on,  '  Kata  Phu>in'  appealing 
}  common-sense  and  common  practice,  as  again>t  the  mathe- 
laticians  an<l  tiie  theorists;  and  the  editor  gave  him  the  last 
Old  to  conclude  the  scries. 

None  of  the  disputants  were  bold  enough  to  remark  that 
lie  great  science  of  pei-s|)cctive  i.s,  after  all,  only  an  ab- 
traction ;  that  the  '  plane  of  the  j)icture '  is  a  mere  a.ssumption, 
lade  for  the  convenience  of  geometrical  draughtsmen ;  and 


64  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

that,  if  you  draw  what  you  really  see,  you  would  draw  the 
top  of  a  tower  greater  than  its  base,  owing  to  the  structure 
of  the  lens  of  the  eye,  as  discussed,  with  curious  experiment 
and  improved  knowledge  of  optics,  by  Dr.  P.  H.  Emerson 
and  l\Ir.  Goodall  in  a  recent  tract. 

Dining  this  controversy,  and  just  before  the  summer  tour 
of  1838  to  Scotland,  John  Ruskin  was  introduced  to  Miss 
Charlotte  \Mthers,  a  young  lady  who  was  a.s  fond  of  music 
as  he  was  of  drawing.  They  discussed  their  favourite  studies 
with  eagerness,  and,  to  settle  the  matter,  he  wrote  a  long 
essay  on  'The  Comparative  Advantages  of  the  Studies  of 
Music  and  Painting,"  in  which  he  sets  painting  as  a  means  of 
recreation  and  of  education  far  above  music.  He  allows  to 
music  a  greater  power  of  stiixing  emotion,  hut  finds  that 
power  strongest  in  proportion  as  the  art  is  diminished  ;  so 
that  the  yEolian  harp  is  the  most  touching  of  all  melody, 
and  next  to  it,  owing  partly  to  associations,  the  Alp-hora. 

To  the  higher  forms  of  musit;  he  awards  no  such  power  of 
compelling  emotion,  and  finds  no  intellectual  interest  in  them 
to  make  up  for  the  loss ;  whereas  in  painting,  the  higher  the 
art,  the  stronger  the  appeal  both  to  the  senses  and  the 
intellect.  He  describes  an  ideal  '  Crucifixion  bv  Vandyke  or 
Guido,'  insisting  on  the  complexity  of  emotions  and  trains  of 
thought  roused  by  such  a  picture.  He  goes  into  ecstasies 
over  a  typical  'Madonna  of  Raphael,'  discusses  David's 
'  Horatii,'  and  concludes  that  even  in  landscape  this  double 
ollice  of  painting,  at  once  artistic  and  literary,  gives  it  a 
supi'emacy  to  which  music  has  no  claim.  As  a  practical 
means  of  education,  he  finds  little  difliculty  in  showing  that, 
'  with  regard  to  drawing,  the  labour  and  time  reiuiired  is  the 
same  (as  for  music),  but  the  advantages  gained  will,'  he  thinks, 
'  be  found  considerably  superior.  These  are  four ;  namely, 
(1)  the  power  of  appreciating  fine  pictures;  (2)  the  agreeable 
ami  interesting  occupation  of  many  hours  ;  (3)  the  habit  of 
quick  observation,  and  exquisite  perce])tion  of  the  beauties 
of  Nature;  and,  lastly,  the  power  of  amusing  and  gratiiying 
others.' 


•ILVrA  PHUSIN'  68 

Already  at  nineteen,  then,  ve  sec  him  as  a  writer  on  art, 
not  full-Hedj^ctl,  but  stu-dily  ti.king  his  own  line  and  maiviiig 
up  his  mind  upon  the  (inst  iji-cat  cpiestions.  As  '  Kata  Phusin ' 
he  was  attraetinfj  some  notice.  Towards  the  end  of  1K;}8  a 
question  arose  as  to  the  hest  site  for  the  proposed  Scott 
memorial  at  r.dinhuru;li,  anil  a  writer  in  the  Anh'itatiiral 
Mii<xu::'i)<e  ijuotes  '  Kiita  I'liusin'  as  tlie  authority  in  «uch 
matters,  savin;!;  tiiat  it  was  obvious,  after  tiiose  j)apei-s  of  bis, 
tiiat  desin;n  and  site  should  be  simultaneously  considered  ;  on 
which  tlie  editor  '  begs  the  favour  of  "  Kata  Phusin  "  to  let 
our  readere  have  his  opinion  on  the  subject,  which  we  certainly 
think  of  considerable  importance.' 

So  he  discusses  the  (luestion  of  monuments  in  general,  and 
of  this  one  in  ])articular,  in  a  long  paper,  coming  to  no  very 
decided  opinion,  but  preferrii-.g,  on  the  whole,  a  statue  group 
with  a  colossiil  Scott  on  a  rough  j)eilestal,  to  be  placed  on 
Salisbury  Crags,  'where  the  range  gets  low  and  broken 
towards  the  north  at  about  the  height  of  St.  Anthony's 
Chapel.'  His  j)aper  did  not  influence  the  Edinburgh  Com- 
mittee, but  it  was  not  without  effect,  as  the  following  extrait 
shows. 

•Bayswater, 

'  November  ZO,  1838. 

'Dear  Sir, 

' .  .  .  Your  son  is  certainly  the  greatest  natural  genius 
that  ever  it  has  been  my  fortune  to  become  ac(|uaiiitetl  with, 
and  I  cannot  but  feel  proud  to  think  that  at  some  future 
|)criod,  wlun  both  you  anil  I  are  under  tlie  turf,  it  will  be 
stated  in  the  literary  history  of  your  son's  life  that  the  first 
article  of  his  which  Wiis  publisbetl  was  in  Loudons  Magazine 
qf'  Xaluial  H'uitorif. 

*Youi-s  very  sincerely, 

*J.  C  LOLDOX.' 


CHAPTER  vm 
Sm  ROGER  NEWDIGATE'S  PRIZE.    (1837-1839.) 

*0s  ol  waldes  ieurSov  6  J"  alr6\os  liS'  dySpcvep- 
AiUr£eo  t4i  fft/nyyas"  iyUriaat  yap  ddouv. 

Theocritus,  vm. 

OF  all  the  prizes  which  Oxford  could  bestow,  the  Newdi- 
gate  used  to  be  the  most  popular.  Its  fortunate 
wnner  was  an  admitted  poet  in  an  age  when  poetry 
was  read,  and  he  appeared  in  his  glory  at  Commemoration, 
speaking  what  the  ladies  could  understand  and  admire.  The 
honour  was  attainable  without  skill  in  Greek  particles  or 
in  logarithms ;  and  yet  it  had  a  real  value  to  an  intending 
preacher,  for  the  successful  reciter  might  be  felt  to  have  put 
his  foot  on  the  pulpit  stairs.  John  Ruskin  was  definitely 
meant  for  the  Church,  and  he  went  to  Oxford  in  the  avowed 
hope  of  getting  the  Newdigate,  if  nothing  else.  His  last  talk 
with  ]\Ir.  Dale  was  chiefly  about  ways  and  means  to  this  end  ; 
and  before  he  went  up  he  had  begun  'The  Gipsies'  for 
IMarch,  1837. 

The  prize  was  won  that  year  by  Arthur  Penrh^-n  Stanley, 
afterwards  Dean  of  Westminster.  Our  candidate  and  his  old 
schoolfellow,  Henry  Dart,  of  Exeter  College,  set  to  work  on 
the  next  subject,  '  The  Exile  of  St.  Helena,'  and  after  the 
long  vacation  read  their  work  to  each  other,  accepting  the 
hints  and  corrections  of  a  friendly  rivalry. 

Meantime  his  old  nurse  Anne  (it  is  trivia],  but  a  touch 
Df  nature),  being  at  Oxford  in  attendance  on  the  ladies,  and 


SIR  ROGER  NEWDIGATES  PRIZE  67 

keen,  as  she  always  was,  for  Master  John's  success,  heard  from 
the  keeper  of  the  Reading-room  of  criticisms  on  his  published 
verses.  She  brought  the  news  to  his  delighted  mother.  'He 
was  pleased,'  she  writes,  '  but  says  that  he  forms  his  own 
cstiiiiiite  of  his  poCms,  and  reviews  don't  alter  it ;  but  "  How 
my  fatliir  will  be  diliglitcd  !  How  ^he  will  crow!"'  ^Vhich 
historictte  repeated  itself  many  a  time  in  the  family 
annals. 

In  Lent  term,  1838,  he  was  hard  at  work  on  the  new  poem. 
He  w  rote :  '  I  must  give  an  immense  time  every  day  to  the 
Ncwiligatc,  which  I  must  have,  if  study  will  get  it.  I 
have  nuich  to  revise.  You  find  many  faults,  but  there  are 
hundreds  which  have  escaped  your  notice,  and  many  lines 
must  go  out  altogether  which  you  and  I  should  wish  to  stay 
in.  The  tiling  must  be  remodelled,  and  I  must  finish  it  while 
it  has  a  freshness  on  it,  otherwise  it  will  not  be  written 
well.  The  oltl  lines  are  hackneyed  in  my  ears,  even  as  a  very 
soft  Orleans  ])lum,  which  your  Jewess  has  wiped  and  re-wiped 
with  the  corner  of  her  apron,  till  its  polish  is  perfect,  and  its 
temperature  elevated.' 

In  this  March  he  got  through  his  '  Smalls.'  '  Nice  thing 
to  get  over  ;  quite  a  joke,  as  everybody  says  when  they've  got 
through  with  the  feathers  on.  It's  a  kind  of  emancipation 
'rom  freshness — a  thing  unpleasant  in  an  egg,  but  dignified 
n  an  Oxonian — very.  Lowe  very  kind ;  Kynaston  ditto — 
lice  fellows — urbane.  How  they  do  frighten  people  !  There 
vas  one  man  all  but  crying  with  mere  fear.  Kyn;iston  had  to 
;oax  him  like  a  child.  I'oor  fellow  !  he  had  some  rea.son  to 
je  afraid  ;  did  his  logic  shockingly.  People  always  take  up 
ogic  because  they  fancy  it  doesn't  require  a  good  memorv, 
uid  there  is  nothing  half  so  productive  of  pluck  ;  they  never 
ctiow  it. 

'  I  was  very  cool  when  I  got  into  it ;  found  the  degree 
)f  excitement  agieeable  ;  nibbled  the  end  of  my  pen,  and 
grinned  at  Kynaston  over  the  table  a.s  if/  had  been  going  to 
jiuck  h'im.     They  always  smile  when  they  mean  pluck.' 

The  Newdigate  for  1838,  for  all  his  care  and  pains,  was 


68  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHx\  RUSKIN 

won  by  Dart.  He  was,  at  any  rate,  beaten  by  a  friend,  and 
with  a  jioein  which  his  own  honourable  sympathy  and  assist- 
ance had  helped  to  perfect. 

Another  trifling  incident  lets  us  get  a  glimpse  of  the  family 
life  of  our  young  poet.  The  Queen's  coronation  in  June, 
1838,  was  a  great  event  to  all  the  world,  and  Mr.  Ruskin  wns 
anxious  for  his  son  to  see  it.  Much  correspondence  ensued 
between  the  parents,  arranging  everything  for  him,  as  they 
always  did — which  of  the  available  tickets  should  be  accepted, 
and  whether  he  could  stand  the  fatigue  of  the  long  waiting, 
and  so  forth.  Mrs.  Ruskin  did  not  like  the  notion  of  her  boy 
sitting  perched  on  rickety  scaffolding  at  dizzy  altitudes  in  the 
Abbey.  Mr.  Ruskin,  evidently  determined  to  carry  his  point, 
went  to  Westminster,  bribed  the  carjaenters,  climbed  the 
structure,  and  reported  all  safe  to  stand  a  century,  '  though,'' 
said  he,  '  the  gold  and  scarlet  of  the  decorations  ajipearcd 
very  paltry  compared  with  the  Wengern  Alp.'  But  he  could 
not  fiiv.l  No.  447,  and  wrote  to  the  Heralds'  Office  to  know  if 
it  was  a  place  from  which  a  good  view  could  be  got.  Blue- 
mantle  replied  that  it  was  a  very  good  place,  and  Lord 
Brownlow  had  just  taken  tickets  for  his  sons  close  by.  Then 
there  was  the  great  question  of  dress.  He  went  to  Owen's 
and  ordered  a  white  satin  waistcoat  with  gold  sprigs,  and  a 
high  dress-coat  with  bright  buttons,  and  asked  his  wife  to  see 
about  white  gloves  at  Oxford — a  Court  white  neck-cloth  or  a 
black  satin  would  do. 

Picture,  then,  the  young  Ruskin  in  those  dressy  days.  A 
portrait  v/as  once  sent  to  Brantwood  of  a  dandy  in  a  green 
coat  of  wonderful  cut,  supposed  to  represent  him  in  his  youth, 
but  suggesting  Lord  Lytton's  '  Pelliam '  rather  than  the 
h>)mespun-suited  seer  of  Coniston.  '  Did  you  ever  wear 
a  coat  like  that  T  I  asked.  '  I'm  not  so  sure  that  I  didn't,' 
said  he. 

After  that,  they  went  to  Scotland  and  the  North  of  England 
for  the  sunmicr,  and  more  line  sketches  were  made,  some  of 
which  hang  now  in  his  drawing-room,  and  compare  not  un- 
favourably with  the  Fronts  beside  them.     In  firnniess  of  line 


SIR  ROGER  NEWDIGATES  PRIZE  69 

nnd  fiilncss  of  insijrht  they  are  masterly,  and  mark  a  rapid 
prom  ess,  all  the  more  astonishing  when  it  is  recollected  how 
little  time  could  have  been  spared  for  practice.  The  subjects 
are  cliielly  architectural — castles  and  churches  and  Gothic 
details — and  one  is  not  surpri>ed  to  find  him  soon  concerned 
with  the  Oxford  Society  for  Promoting  the  Study  of  Gothic 
Architecture.  '  They  were  all  reverends,'  says  a  letter  of  the 
time,  '  and  wantetl  somebody  to  rouse  them.' 

Science,  too,  jirogiessed  this  year.  A\'e  read  of  geological 
excureions  to  Sliotover  with  Lord  Carew  and  Lord  Kildare — 
one  carrying  the  hammer  and  another  the  umbrella — and 
actual  discoveries  of  saurian  remains;  and  many  a  merry 
meeting  at  Dr.  Buckland's,  in  which,  at  intervals  of  scientific 
talk,  John  romped  with  the  youngsters  of  the  family.  After 
a  while  the  Dean  took  the  opportunity  of  a  walk  through 
Oxforil  to  the  Clarendon  to  warn  him  not  to  spend  too  much 
time  on  science.  It  did  not  pay  in  the  Schools  nor  in  the 
Church,  and  he  had  too  many  irons  in  the  fire. 

Drawing,  and  science,  anil  the  j)rose  essays  mentioned  in 
the  la.st  chapter,  anil  poetry,  all  these  were  his  by -play. 
Of  the  poetry,  the  Ncwdigate  was  but  a  little  part.  In 
'Friendship's  OH'ering''  this  autumn  he  published  'Remem- 
brance,' one  of  many  poems  to  Adele ;  '  Christ  Church,'  of 
which  Mr.  Harrison  said  that  the  last  stanza  was  unintel- 
ligible, but  he  would  print  it  for  the  pi'0|)le  who  liked  their 
poetry  so;  and  the  'Scythian  Grave.'  In  rcailing  Herodotus 
he  had  been  stiiick — as  who  is  not? — by  the  romantic  pic- 
ture.s(iueness  of  the  incomparable  old  chronicler.  Several 
pa-ssages  of  Greek  history — the  story  of  the  Athenian 
fugitive  from  the  massacre  at  yKgina,  and  the  death  of 
Aristodemus  at  Plata^a — oflered  telling  subjects  for  lyrical 
vci-se ;  the  death  of  Arion,  and  the  dethronement  of 
P.snnnnenitus  were  treated,  later,  at  length  ;  but,  above  all, 
the  account  of  the  Scythians,  with  their  wild  primitive  life 
and  mannei-s,  fascinated  him.  Instead  of  gathering  from 
their  history  such  an  iilvl  as  Mr.  \\'iliiam  Moiris  would  have 
made,  he  fixed  upon  only  the  most  gruesome  points — their 


70  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

fierce  struo;g]e  with  the  Persians,  cruelty  and  slavery,  burial- 
rites  and  skull-goblets' — which  he  set  himself  to  picture  with 
ghastly  realism. 

In  these  poems  there  is  a  strong  tinge  of  the  horrible, 
which,  to  judge  from  Mr.  lluskin's  expressed  opinions  on  art, 
we  should  hai'dly  suspect  ever  to  have  been  his  taste.  But 
during  all  his  boyhood  and  youth  there  were  moments  of 
weakness  when  he  allowed  himself  to  be  carried  away  by  a 
sort  of  nightmare,  the  reaction  from  healthy  delight  in 
natural  beauty.  In  later  life  he  learned  to  put  limits  to  art, 
and  to  refuse  the  merely  horrible  as  its  material — at  least,  to 
confine  it  to  necessary  revelations  of  actual  suffering.  As  an 
undergraduate,  however,  \vriting  for  effect,  he  gave  free  rein 
to  the  morbid  imaginations  to  which  his  unhappy  affaire  de 
ctrur  and  the  mental  excitement  of  the  period  predisposed 
him.  Mr.  Harrison,  his  literary  jMentor,  approved  these 
poems,  and  inserted  them  in  '  Friendship's  Offering,'  along 
with  love-songs  and  other  exercises  in  verse.  One  had  a  great 
success  and  was  fi-eely  copied — tlie  sincerest  flattery — and  the 
prefoce  to  the  annual  for  1840  publicly  thanked  the  'gifted 
writer'  for  his  'valuable  aid.' 

At  the  beginning  of  1839  he  went  into  new  rooms  vacated 
by  Mr.  jNIeux,  and  set  to  work  finally  on  '  Salsette  and 
Elephanta.'  He  ransacked  all  sources  of  information,  coached 
himself  in  Eastern  scenery  and  mythology,  threw  in  the 
Aristotelian  ingredients  of  terror  and  pity,  and  wound  up 
with  an  appeal  to  the  orthodoxy  of  the  examiners,  of  whom 
Keble  was  the  chief,  by  prophesying  th^  prompt  extermina- 
tion of  Brahminism  under  the  teaching  of  the  missionaries. 
And  while  he  wrote,  his  parents  kept  it  from  him  day  after 
day  that  his  lady-love  could  be  his  no  longer. 

This  third  try  won  the  prize.  Keble  sent  for  liim,  to  make 
the  usual  emendations  before  the  great  work  could  be  given 
to  the  world  with  the  seal  of  Oxford  upon  it.  John  Ruskin 
seems  to  have  been  somewhat  refractory  under  Kcblc's  hands, 
though  he  would  let  his  fellow-students,  or  his  father,  or 
Mr.  Harrison,  work  their  will  on  his  MSS.  or  proofs ;  being 


SIR  ROGER  NEWDIGATES  PRIZE  71 

always  easier  to  lead  than  to  drive.  Somehow  he  came  to 
terms  witii  the  Professor,  and  then  the  Denn,  taking  an 
unexpected  intcivst,  was  at  pains  to  see  tliat  his  |)rintcil  copy 
was  flawless,  and  to  eoach  hinj  for  the  recitation  of  it  at  the 
great  day  in  the  Shcldonian  (June  152,  lS.'Ji)). 

And  now  that  friends  and  strangei-s,  |)uhlishci-s  in  London 
and  professors  in  Oxford,  concurred  in  their  apphiuse.  it 
surely  seemed  that  he  had  found  his  votuliou,  auJ  was  well 
on  the  hi^lu'oud  to  fume  as  a  poci 


CHAFl-ER  IX. 

THE  BROKEN  CHAIN.    (1840-1841.) 

'  But  nevermore  the  same  two  sister  pearls 
Ban  down  the  silken  thread  to  kiss  each  other 
On  her  white  neck  ;  so  is  it  with  this  rhyme.' 

TennysoU. 

THAT  8th  of  February,  1840,  when  John  Ruskin  came  of 
age,  it  seemed  as  though  all  the  gifts  of  fortune  had 
been  poured  into  his  lap.  What  his  father's  wealth 
and  influence  could  do  for  him  had  been  supplemented  by  a 
personal  charm,  which  found  him  friends  among  the  best 
men  of  the  best  ranks.  "What  his  mother's  care  had  done  in 
fortifying  his  health  and  forming  his  character,  native  energy 
had  turned  to  the  best  advantage.  He  had  won  a  reputation 
already  much  wider  and  more  appreciable,  as  an  artist  and 
student  of  science,  and  as  a  writer  of  prose  and  verse,  than 
undergraduates  aie  entitled  to  expect;  and,  for  crowning 
mercy,  his  head  was  not  turned.  He  w'as  reading  extremely 
hard — '  in '  for  his  degree  examination  next  Easter  term. 
His  college  tutor  hoped  he  would  get  a  Fii-st.  From  that  it 
was  an  easy  step  to  Holy  Orders,  and  with  his  opportunities 
preferment  was  certain. 

On  his  twenty-hrst  birthday,  his  father,  who  had  sym- 
pathized with  his  admiration  for  Turner  enough  to  buy  two 
pictures — the  'Richmond  Bridge'  and  the  '(losporf — for 
their  Heme  Hill  drawing-room,  now  gave  him  a  j)icture  all 
to  himself  for  his  new  rooms  in  St.  Aldate's, — the  '  \Vinchel- 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN  73 

sea,'  ftnd  settled  on  him  a  handsome  nllownnre  of  pocket- 
money.  Tlie  first  use  he  niiule  of  his  wealth  was  to  hii y  another 
Turner.  In  the  Ea.stcr  vacation  he  met  Mr.  GriliiHi,  the 
dealer,  at  the  private  view  of  the  old  Water-colour  Society, 
and  hearing;  that  the  '  Harlech  Castle'  wa.s  for  sale,  he  houglit 
it  there  and  then,  with  the  characteristic  disrcf^aril  for  money 
which  lias  always  made  the  vendors  of  ])icturcs  and  books 
nnil  minerals  find  him  extremely  pleasant  to  deal  with.  But 
as  his  love-artiiir  had  shown  his  mother  how  little  he  had 
taken  to  heart  her  chiefcst  care  for  him,  so  this  (ii-st  business 
transaction  was  a  painful  awakening  to  his  father,  the  canny 
Scotch  merchant,  who  had  heaped  up  riches  hojjing  that  hi^ 
son  would  gather  them. 

This  'Harlech  Castle'  transaction,  however,  was  not 
altogether  uiducky.  It  brought  him  an  introduction  to  the 
painter,  whom  he  met  when  he  was  next  in  town,  at  Mr. 
Gridith's  house.  He  knew  well  enough  the  poj)ular  idea  of 
Turner  as  a  morose  and  niggardly,  inexplicable  man.  As  he 
Imd  seen  faults  in  Turner's  painting,  so  he  was  ready  to 
acknowletlge  the  faults  in  his  character.  But  while  the  rest 
of  the  world,  with  a  very  few  exceptions,  dwelt  uj)on  the 
faults,  Huskin  had  penetration  to  discern  the  virtues  which 
they  hid.  Few  passages  in  his  autobiography  are  more 
striking  than  the  transcript  from  his  journal  of  the  same 
evening  rcconliiig  his  fii-st  impression: 

'"I  fountl  in  him  a  somewhat  eccentric,  kecn-maimered, 
matter-of-fact,  English -mindeil — gentleman  ;  good-natured 
evidently,  bad-tempered  evidently,  hating  humbug  of  all 
sorts,  slirevd,  perhaps  a  little  selfish,  highly  intellectual,  the 
powers  o(  the  mind  not  brought  out  with  any  delight  in 
their  manifestation,  or  intention  of  ilisj)lay,  but  Hashing  out 
occasionally  in  a  word  or  a  look."  Trctty  close,  that,'  he 
ailds  later,  '  and  full,  to  be  set  down  at  the  fii-st  glimpse,  and 
set  ilown  the  same  evening.' 

Turner  was  not  a  man  to  make  an  intimate  of,  all  at  once; 
the  ac(luaintance^hip  continued,  and  it  ripened  into  as  close 
a  couiiilencc  as  the  eccentric  painter's  habits  of  life  permitted. 


74  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

He  seems  to  have  been  more  at  home  with  the  father  than 
with  the  son ;  but  even  when  the  young  man  took  to  writing 
books  about  him,  he  did  not,  as  Carlyle  is  reported  to  have 
done  in  a  parallel  case,  show  his  exponent  to  the  door. 

The  occasion  of  John  Raskin's  coming  to  town  this  time 
was  not  a  pleasant  one — nothing  less  than  the  complete 
breakdo\vn  of  his  health  ;  we  have  heard  the  reasons  why  in 
the  last  chapter  but  one.  It  is  true  that  he  was  working  very 
hard  during  this  spring ;  but  hard  reading  does  not  of  itself 
kill  people,  only  when  it  is  combined  with  real  and  prolonged 
mental  distress,  acting  upon  a  sensitive  temperament.  The 
case  was  thought  serious;  reading  was  stopped,  and  the 
patient  was  ordered  abroad  for  the  winter. 

From  February  to  May,  and  such  a  change  !  Then  he  had 
seemed  so  near  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  the  prospect  was 
opening  out  before  him ;  now  cloud  and  storm  had  come 
suddenly  down  ;  the  path  was  lost,  the  future  blotted  out. 
Disappointed  in  love,  after  four  years  of  hope  and  effort; 
disappointed  in  ambition,  after  so  nearly  gathering  tlie  fraits 
of  his  labour ;  to  be  laid  aside,  to  be  sent  away  out  of  the 
battlefield  as  a  wounded  man — perhaps  to  die. 

For  that  summer  there  was  no  hurry  to  be  gone  ;  rest  was 
more  needed  than  change,  at  first.  Late  in  September  the 
same  family-party  crossed  the  sea  to  Calais.  How  different 
a  voyage  for  them  all  from  the  merry  departures  of  bygone 
Mays !  Which  way  should  they  turn .?  Not  to  Paris,  for 
there  was  the  cause  of  all  these  ills ;  so  they  went  straight 
southwards,  through  Normandy  to  the  Loire,  and  saw  the 
chateaux  and  chui-ches  from  Orleans  to  Tours,  famous  for 
their  Renaissance  architecture  and  for  the  romance  of  their 
chivalric   history.      Amboise   especially   made  a  strong   im- 


pression upon 


the  languid  and  unwilling  invalid.     It  stirred 


him  up  to  write,  in  easy  verse,  the  tale  of  love  and  death 
that  his  o\vn  situation  too  readily  suggested.  In  'The 
Broken  Chain '  he  indulged  his  gloomy  fancy,  turning,  as  it 
was  sure  to  do,  into  a  morbid  nightmare  of  mysterious  horror, 
not  without  reminiscence  of  Coleridge's  '  Christabel.'     But 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN  75 

tliroiifjh  it  nil  he  preserved,  so  to  speak,  his  dramatic  in- 
co;Xiiito  ;  liis  own  (iisiii)poiiitment  and  his  own  anticipated 
death  were  the  motives  of  the  talc,  but  treated  in  such  a 
manner  as  not  to  betray  his  secret,  nor  even  to  wound  the 
fetlin<js  of  the  lady  who  now  was  beyond  appeal  from  an 
honourable  lover — tnkinnf  his  punisiunent  like  a  man. 

This  jioem  lastetl  him,  for  private  writiiipf,  all  through  that 
journey — a  fit  emblem  of  the  broken  life  which  it  records. 
A  healthier  source  of  distraction  was  his  drawinjj,  in  which 
he  had  received  a  fresh  in)petus  from  the  exhibition  of  David 
lloberts'  sketches  in  the  Kiust.  More  delicate  than  Front's 
work,  entering  into  the  detail  of  architectural  form  more 
thorouphlv,  anil  vet  susjgestinn;  chiaroscuro  with  broad  washes 
of  quiet  tone  and  touches  of  lifjht,  cleverly  introduced — '  that 
marvellous  jmp  of  lijjht  across  the  forcfjrounil,''  Hardin'''  said 
of  the  picture  of  the  Great  Pyramid — these  drawinjjs  were  a 
mean  between  the  limited  manner  of  Prout  and  the  inimitable 
fulness  of  Turner,  lluskin  took  up  the  fine  pencil  and  the 
broad  brush,  and,  with  that  blcsse<l  habit  of  industry  which 
lias  helped  so  many  a  one  thn)u<^h  times  of  trial,  made  sketch 
after  sketch  on  the  half-imperial  board,  linishctl  just  so  far  as 
his  strenfjth  and  time  allowetl,  as  they  passed  from  the  Loire 
to  the  mountains  of  Auverpne,  and  to  the  valley  of  the 
Rhone,  and  thence  slowly  round  the  Riviera  to  Pisa  and 
Florence  and  Koine. 

He  was  not  in  a  mood  to  sympathize  readily  with  the 
enthusiasms  of  other  people,  'llicv  expected  him  to  be 
delighted  with  the  scenery,  the  buildings,  the  picture-galleries 
of  Italy,  and  to  forget  himself  in  admiration.  He  did  admire 
Michelangelo ;  and  he  was  interested  in  the  back-streets  and 
slums  of  the  cities.  Something  pieplant  was  nee<led  to  arouse 
him  ;  the  mild  ecstasies  of  common  connoisseursliip  hardly 
Bp|Kal  to  a  young  man  Ixtwecn  life  and  death.  He  met  the 
friends  to  whom  he  ha<l  brought  intrmhictioiis — Mr.  Jo.seph 
Severn,  who  had  been  Keats'  com[)anion,  and  was  afterwards 
to  be  the  genial  Consul  at  Rome,  and  the  two  Messrs.  Rich- 
monil.  then  studying  art  in  the  regular  professional  way  ;  oue 


76  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

of  them  to  become  a  celebrated  portrait -painter,  and  the 
father  of  men  of  mark  ;  the  present  R.A.,  the  architect  and  a 
Canon  of  CarHsle.  But  his  views  on  aii  were  not  theirs ;  he 
was  ah-eady  too  independent  and  outspoken  in  praisi^  of  his 
own  heroes,  and  too  sick  in  mind  and  body  to  be  patient  and 
to  learn. 

They  had  not  been  a  month  in  Rome  before  he  took  the 
fever.  As  soon  as  he  was  recovered,  they  went  still  farther 
South,  and  loitered  for  a  couple  of  months  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Naples,  visiting  the  various  scenes  of  interest — 
Sorrento,  Amalfi,  Salerno.  The  adventures  of  this  journey 
are  partly  told  in  letters  to  IVIr.  Dale,  printed  in  the  volume 
above  mentioned,  and  in  the  '  Letters  addressed  to  a  College 
Friend  '—books  which,  though  not  published  by  himself  as 
part  of  his  works,  are  interesting  as  contributions  to  his 
biography.  In  them  the  reader  may  trace,  more  fully  than 
we  can  here  detail,  his  occupations  and  travels,  and  find  many 
a  quaint  remark  and  admirable  bit  of  description,  anticipating 
and  explaining  the  wealth  of  language  so  soon  to  be  displayed 
in  his  writings  on  art. 

On  the  way  to  Naples  lie  had  noted  and  sketched  the  winter 
scene  at  La  Riccia,  which  he  afterwards  used  for  a  glowing 
passage  in  '  Modern  Painters  ■■ ;  and  he  had  ventured  into  a 
village  of  brigands  to  draw  such  a  castle  as  he  had  once 
imagined  in  his  '  Leoni.'  From  Naples  he  wrote  an  account 
of  a  landslip  near  Giagnano,  and  sent  it  home  '^o  the 
Ashmolean  Society.  He  seemed  better;  they  turned  home- 
wards, when  suddenly  he  was  seized  with  all  the  old  symptoms 
worse  than  ever.  After  another  month  at  Rome,  they 
travelled  slowly  northwards  from  town  to  town ;  spent  ten 
days  of  May  at  Venice,  and  passed  through  Milan  and  Turin, 
and  over  the  Mont  Cenis  to  Geneva. 

At  last  he  was  among  the  mountains  again — the  Alps  that 
he  loved.  It  was  not  only  that  the  air  of  the  Alps  braced 
him,  but  the  spirit  of  mountain-worship  stirred  him  as 
nothing  else  could.  At  last  he  seemed  himself,  after  more 
than  a  year  of  intense  depression  ;  and  he  records  that  one 


THE  BROKEN  CHAIN  77 

dftv,  in  cliuich  at  Geneva,  he  resolved  to  do  sonietliint^,  to  be 
sonielliinj;  u.seful.  Tlmt  lie  eoiikl  make  suih  a  resolve  was  a 
sijjn  of  retuniinjj  liealtli ;  but  if,  as  I  find,  he  had  just  been 
readinpf  Cnrlvle's  latilv-|nib]ishc(l  lectures  on  '  Heroes,'  tliough 
he  diil  not  accei)t  Carlvle's  conclusions  nor  admire  his  style, 
nii;;ht  he  not,  in  spite  of  his  criticism,  have  been  spuiTed  the 
more  into  enerjjy  by  that  enthusiastic  gospel  of  action  ? 

They  travelled  iiome  by  Unsle  and  Laon  ;  but  Loadon  in 
Au<;ust,  and  the  premature  attempt  to  be  energetic,  brought 
on  a  recurrence  of  the  symptoms  of  consumption,  as  it  was 
called.  He  wisheil  to  try  the  mountain-cure  again,  and  set 
out  with  his  friend  llichard  Fall  for  a  tour  in  Wales.  But 
his  father  recalleil  him  to  Leamington  to  try  iron  and  dieting 
under  Ur.  Jejihson,  who,  if  he  was  called  a  quack,  was  a 
sensible  one,  and  successful  in  subduing  for  several  yeare  to 
come  the  moi-e  serious  ])ha.ses  of  the  di.sease.  Tiie  patient 
was  not  curetl  ;  lie  sullered  from  time  to  time  from  his  chest, 
and  still  more  from  a  weakness  of  the  spine,  which  during  all 
the  period  of  his  earl  v  maidiood  gave  him  trouble,  and  finished 
by  bending  his  tall  and  lithe  figure  into  something  that, 
were  it  not  for  his  face,  would  be  deformity.  In  18-17  he  was 
again  at  Ixamington  under  Jcphson,  in  conseciuence  of  a 
rclap.se  into  the  consvunptive  synij)toins,  after  which  we  hear 
no  more  of  it.  He  outgrew  the  tendencv,  as  so  maiiv  do. 
But  nevertheless  the  alarm  had  been  justifiable,  anil  the 
nialadv  had  left  traces  which,  in  one  way  anti  another, 
haiuited  him  ever  after;  for  one  of  the  worst  eflects  of  illness 
is  to  be  marked  down  as  an  invalid. 

At  I.*amington,  then,  in  J^eptembcr,  18H,  he  was  finding 
B  new  life  under  the  doctor's  dieting,  and  new  aims  in  life, 
which  were  eventually  to  resolder  for  awhile  the  broken 
chain.  Among  the  Scotch  friends  of  the  Uuskins  there  was  a 
."amily  at  I'erth  whose  daughter  came  to  visit  at  Heme  Hill, 
more  lovely  and  more  lively  than  his  Spanish  Princess  had 
been.  The  story  goi-s  that  she  challenged  the  melancholy 
John,  engiossed  in  his  drawing  anil  geology,  to  write  a  fairy- 
uile,  as  the  least  likely  task   for  him  to  fulfil.      Upon  whii;h 


78  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

he  produced,  at  a  couple  of  sittings,  '  The  King  of  the  Golden 
River,'  a  pretty  medley  of  Grimm's  grotesque  and  Dickens 
kindliness  and  the  true  Ruskinian  ecstasy  of  the  Alps. 

He  had  come  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow,  that 
terrible  experience  which  so  few  survive ;  fewer  still  emerge 
from  it  without  loss  of  all  that  makes  their  life  worth  the 
living.  But  though  for  awhile  he  was '  hard  bested,'  he  fought 
a  good  fight,  and  kept  his  faith  in  God,  and  in  Nature,  and 
in  the  human  hearU 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  GRADUATE  OF  OXFORD.    (1841,  1841) 

•Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art  ; 
Close  up  thoae  barren  leaves ; 
Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a  heart 
That  watchea  and  receives.' 

Wordsworth. 

READY  for  work  njj.iin,  and  in  reasonable  health  of 
mind  and  body,  John  Uiiskin  sat  down  in  his  little 
study  at  Ilerne  Hill  in  NovcndxT,  1841,  with  his 
private  tutor,  Osborne  Gordon.  There  was  eij^hteen  months' 
leeway  to  make  up,  and  the  dates  of  ancient  history,  the 
details  of  schematized  Aristotelianism,  soon  slip  out  of  mind 
when  one  is  sketchiiijj  in  Italy.  But  he  was  more  serious  now 
about  his  work,  ami  aware  of  his  deficiencies.  To  be  useful 
in  the  world,  is  it  not  necessary  first  to  unilei-stand  all  possible 
Greek  constructions  ?  So  sjiid  the  voice  of  Oxford  ;  but  our 
underj^railuate  was  saved,  botii  now  and  afterwarils,  from  this 
vain  ambition.  '  I  think  it  would  hardly  be  worth  your 
while,'  said  Gonlon,  with  Delphic  doublc-cntendre. 

He  could  not  now  go  in  for  honours,  for  the  lost  year  had 
superannuateil  him.  So  in  April  he  went  up  for  a  pass.  In 
those  times,  when  a  pa.ss-man  showcil  unuMial  powers,  they 
coulil  give  him  an  honorary  cla-ss :  not  a  high  class,  because 
the  range  of  the  examination  was  less  than  in  the  honour- 
school.  This  candidate  wrote  a  poor  I^tin  prose,  it  seems  ; 
but  his  divinity,  philosophy,  anil  mathematii-s  were  so  good 
that  they  gave  him  the  best  they  could — an  honorary  double 


80  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

fourth — upon   which   he   took   his   B.A.  degree,  and   could 
describe  himself  as  '  A  Graduate  of  Oxford.' 

It  is  noteworthy  that  our  greatest  master  of  English  wrote 
a  poor  Latin  prose.  So  much  the  worse,  many  will  say,  for 
Latin  prose.  The  divinity,  by  which  is  meant  Bible-know- 
ledge, was  thoroughly  learnt  from  his  mother's  early  lessons. 
Not  long  after,  he  was  contemptuously  amused  at  a  Scotch 
reviewer,  who  did  not  know  what  a  '  chrysoprase '  was.  As 
the  word  occurs  in  the  Revelation,  he  assumed  that  everyone 
ought  to  know  it,  whether  niinei-aloglst  or  not.  And  his 
works  teem  with  Biblical  quotations — see  their  indexes  for  the 
catalogue.  The  mathematics  were  not  elaborate  in  the  old 
Oxford  pass-school ;  geometry  and  the  elements  of  trigo- 
nometry and  conies,  thoroughly  got  by  heart,  and  frequently 
alluded  to  in  early  works,  sum  up  his  studies.  The  philosophy 
meant  the  usual  logic  from  Aldrich,  with  Bacon  and  Locke, 
Aristotle  and  Plato,  analyzed  into  rather  thin  abstract.  But 
Ruskin,  with  his  thoroughness  in  all  matters  of  general 
interest,  took  in  the  teaching  of  his  books,  and  inwardly 
digested  it.  '  IVIodern  Painters,'  even  in  its  literary  style,  is 
imbued  with  Locke;  Aristotle  is  his  leader  and  antagonist 
alternately  thi-oughout  the  earlier  period  of  art  criticism,  and 
Plato  his  guide  and  philosopher  ever  after.  Some  Scotch 
philosophy  he  had  read;  Thomas  Brown,  liis  parents'  old 
friend ;  Dugald  Stewart  and  the  rest  of  the  school  ;  and 
their  teaching  comes  out  in  the  scheme  of  thought  that 
undei-lies  his  artistic  theories. 

It  is  worth  while  dwelling  upon  his  acquirements  at  this 
moment — taking  stock,  as  it  were — because  he  was  on  the 
brink  of  his  first  great  work.  '  Modern  Painters '  has  been 
usually  looked  upon  as  the  sudden  outburst  of  a  genius; 
young_  but  mature;  complex,  but  inexplicable;  to  be 
accepted  as  a  gospel  or  to  be  decried  as  the  raving  of  a 
heretic.  But  we  cannot  trace  the  author's  life  without  seeing 
that  the  book  is  only  one  episode  in  an  interesting  develop- 
ment. We  have  been  gradually  led  up  to  it,  and  as  gradually 
we  shall  be  led  away  from  it ;  and  the  better  we  undei-stand 


THE  GRADUATE  OF  OXFORD  81 

the  circumstances  of  its  production,  the  better  wc  shall  be 
able  to  appreciate  it,  to  weigh  it,  ami  to  keep  what  is  perma- 
nent in  it. 

All  this  religious  and  useful  learning  was  very  lightly 
carried  by  our  Oxford  graduate.  He  could  now  take  no  high 
academic  position,  and  tiie  continued  weakness  of  his  health 
kept  him  from  taking  steps  to  enter  the  Church  ;  and  his  i-cal 
interest  in  art  was  not  crowded  out  even  by  the  last  studies 
for  his  examination.  While  he  wjis  working  with  Gordon,  in 
the  autumn  of  lfSH,hewas  also  taking  lessons  from  J.  D. 
Harding;  and  the  famous  study  of  ivy,  his  first  naturalistic 
sketching,  to  which  we  must  revert, — this  must  have  been 
done  a  week  or  two  before  going  up  for  his  examination. 

The  lessons  from  Harding  were  .a  useful  counter-stroke  to 
the  excessive  and  exaggerated  Turnerism  in  which  he  had 
been  indulging  through  his  illness.  The  draw  ings  of  Amboi.se, 
the  coiust  of  Genoa,  and  the  Glacier  des  Bois,  though  pub- 
lishetl  later,  were  made  before  he  had  exchanged  fancy  for 
fact ;  anil  they  bear,  on  the  face  of  them,  the  obvious  marks 
of  an  unhealthy  state  of  mind.  Harding,  whose  robust 
common-sense  and  breezy  mannerism  endeared  him  to  the 
British  amateur  of  his  generation,  was  just  the  man  to 
correct  any  morbid  tendency.  He  had  religious  views  in 
sympathy   with    his   pupil,  and    he   soon   inoculated   Uuskin 

with    his    contempt    for    tlie muiuii-Jiutcb.  school ^.tliose 

bituininous^  landscapes,  so  unlike  the  sparkling  freshness  that 
Harding's  own  water-colour  illustrated,  and  those  vulgar 
tavern  sc-enes,  painted,  he  declared,  by  sots  who  disgraced 
art  alike  in  their  works  and  in  their  lives. 

Until  this  epoch,  John  Uuskin  had  found  much  that 
interested  him  in  the  Dutch  and  Flemish  painters  of  the 
seventeenth  c-entury.  He  had  cla.ssed  them  all  together  as 
the  school  of  which  Rubeii.s,  Vanilyck,  and  Rembrandt  were 
the  chief  masters,  and  those  as  names  to  rank  with  Raphael 
aiul  Michelangelo  and  \ela.si|ue/.  He  was  a  humorist,  not 
without  boyish  delight  in  a  good  Sam-Wellerism,  and  so 
could  be  amused  with  the  'drolls,'  until  Harding  appealed  to 


82  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKLV 

his  religion  and  morality  against  them.  He  was  a  chiar- 
oscurist,  and  not  naturally  offended  by  their  violent  light  and 
shade,  until  George  Richmond  showed  him  the  more  excel- 
lent way  in  colour,  the  glow  of  Venice,  first  hinting  it  at 
Rome  in  1840,  and  then  proving  it  in  London  in  the  spring 
of  1842,  from  Samuel  Rogers'  treasures,  of  which  the  chief 
(now  in  the  National  Gallery)  was  the  '  Christ  appearing  to 
the  Magdalen.' 

Much  as  the  author  of  '  IVIodern  Painters '  owed  to  these 

friends  and  teachers,  and  to  the   advantages  of  his  varied 

training,  he  would  never  have  wTitten  his  great  work  without 

a   farther   inspiration.      Harding's    especial    forte    was    his 

method  of  drawing  trees.     He  looked  at  Nature  with  an  eye 

which,  for  his  period,  was  singularly  fresh  and  unprejudiced ; 

he  had  a  strong  feeling  for  truth  of  structure  as   well  as 

for  picturesque  effect,  and  he  taught  his  pupils  to  obsene 

as  well  as  to  draw.     But  in  his  own  pi-actice  he  rested  too 

f  much  on  having  observed ;  formed  a  style,  and  copied  himself 

I    if  he  did  not  copy  the  old  masters.     Hence  he  held  to  rules 

1    of   composition   and  conscious  gi-aces  of  aiTangement  ;  and 

Vjidiile  he  taught  naturalism  in  study,  he  followed  it  up  with 

teaching  artifice  in  practice. 

Turner,  who  was  not  a  drawing-master,  lay  under  no 
necessity  to  formulate  his  principles  and  stick  to  them.  On 
the  contrary,  his  style  developed  like  a  kaleidoscope,  ever 
changing  into  something  more  rich  and  strange.  He  had 
been  in  Switzerland  and  on  the  Rhine  in  1841,  'painting  his 
.  impressions,'  making  water-colour  notes  from  memory  of 
effects  that  had  struck  him.  From  one  of  these,  '  SpK'igen,' 
he  had  made  a  iinished  picture,  and  now  wished  to  get 
commissions  for  more  of  the  same  class.  Ruskin  was  greatly 
intei-ested  in  this  series,  because  they  were  not  landscajies  of 
the  ordinary  type,  scenes  from  Nature  squeezed  into  the 
mould  of  recognised  artistic  composition,  nor,  on  the  other 
hand,  mere  photographic  transcripts  ;  but  dreams,  as  it  were, 
of  the  mountains  and  sunsets,  in  which  Xiinie£a._H:ealth  of 
detail  was  suggested,  ancl_his  intuitive  knowiedge  of  form 


THE  GRADUATE  OF  OXFORD  83 

expressed,  together  witli  the  unity  which  comes  of  the  faithful 
record  of  a  sinp;fe  impression.  Notliinj;  luul  been  done  like 
them  befoi-o,  in  laiulsoipe.  They  sliowed  tiuit  an  artistic 
rcsul:  nn'ght  be  obtained  witliout  the  use  of  the  onhnnry 
tricks  antl  professional  rules ;  that  there  was  a  sort  of  com- 
position possible,  of  whi«h  the  usual  hackneyed  arranfjcments 
were  merely  frigid  and  vapid  imitations;  and  that  this  higher 
kind  of  ai-t  was  only  to  be  learnt  by  long  watching  of  Nature 
and  sincere  rendering  of  her  motives,  her  supreme  moments, 
the  spirit  of  her  scenes. 

The  lesson  was  soon  enforced  upon  his  mind  by  example. 
One  day,  while  taking  his  student's  constitutional,  he  noticed 
a  tree-stem  with  ivy  upon  it,  which  seemed  not  ungraceful, 
and  invitcti  a  sketch.  As  he  drew  he  fell  into  the  spirit  of 
its  natural  arrjingement,  and  soon  perceived  how  much  finer 
it  was  as  a  piece  of  tlesign  than  anv  conventional  rearrange- 
ment woulil  be.  Harding  had  tried  to  show  him  how  to 
generalize  foliage;  but  in  this  example  he  saw  that  not 
generalization  was  needed  to  get  its  beauty,  but  truth.  If 
he  could  express  his  sense  of  the  charm  of  the  natural 
arrangement,  what  use  in  substituting  an  artificial  com- 
position .' 

In  that  discovery  lay  the  germ  of  his  whole  theory  of  art, 
the  gist  of  his  mission.  Undei-standing  the  importance  of  it, 
we  .shall  understand  his  subse<]uent  writing,  tlie  grounds  of 
his  criticism  and  the  text  of  his  art-teaching.  If  it  can  be 
sunnnetl  in  a  word,  the  word  is  'sincerity.'  Re  sincere  with 
Nature,  and  take  her  as  she  is;  neither  casually  glancing  at 
her  'effects'  nor  dully  labouring  at  her  parts,  with  the  in- 
tention of  improving  and  blending  them  into  .something 
better,  but  taking  her  all  in  all.  On  the  other  hand,  be 
sincere  wilh  yourself,  knowing  what  you  truly  admire,  and 
painting  that,  refusing  the  hypocrisy  of  any  'gnuid  style'  or 
'  high  art,' just  as  much  as  vou  refuse  to  pander  to  vulgar 
ta-stes.  Anil  then  vital  art  is  pro<iuccxl,  and,  if  the  workman 
be  a  man  of  great  powers,  great  art. 

All  this  followed  from  tlie  ivy  sketch  on  Tuise  Hill  in  ^lav. 
6—2 


84  LIFE  AND  ^6rK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

1842.  It  did  not  follow  all  at  once ;  repeated  experiment 
was  needed  to  give  tli^  grounds  from  which  the  intluction 
was  drawn.  At  Fontainebleau  soon  after,  under  much  the 
same  circumstances,  a  study  of  an  aspen -tree,  idly  begun, 
but  carried  out  \yith  interest  and  patience,  confirmed  the 
principle.  At  Geneva,  onrce  more  in  the  church  where  he 
had  formed  such  resolutions  the  year  before,  the  desire  came 
over  him  with  rene*ved  force  ;  now  not  only  to  be  definitely 
employed,  but  to  be  employed  in  the  service  of  a  definite 
nussion,  which,  be  it  observed,  was,  in  art,  exactly  what 
Carlyle  had  preached  in  every  other  sphere  of  life  jn  that  book 
of  '  Heroes :'  the  gospel  of  sincerity  ;  the  referenc'^f  greatness 
in  any  form  to  honesty  of  purpose  as  the  underlying  motive 
of  a  perspicuous  intellect  and  a  resolute  will — these  last  being 
necessary  conditions  of  success,  but  the  sincerity  being  the 
chief  thing  needful. 

The  design  took  shape.  At  Chamouni  he  studied  plants 
and  rocks  and  clouds,  not  as  an  artist  to  make  pictures  out  of 
them,  nor  as  a  scientist  to  class  them  and  analyze  them ;  but  to 
learn  their  aspects  and  enter  into  the  spirit  of  their  growth  and 
structure.  And  though  on  his  way  home  through  Switzerland 
and  down  the  Rhine  he  made  a  few  drawings  in  his  old  style 
for  admiring  friends,  they  were  the  last  of  the  kind  that  he 
attempted.  Thenceforward  his  path  was  marked  out ;  he 
had  found  a  new  vocation.  He  was  not  to  be  a  poet, — that 
was  too  definitely  bound  up  with  the  past  which  he  wanted 
to  forget,  antl  with  conventionalities  which  he  wished  to 
shake  off;  not  to  be  an  artist,  struggling  with  the  rest  to 
please  a  public  which  he  felt  himself  called  upon  to  teach; 
not  a  man  of  science,  for  his  botany  and  geology  were  to  be 
the  means,  and  not  the  ends,  of  his  teaching ;  but  the  mission 
was  laid  upon  him  to  tell  the  work!  that  Art,  no  less  than 
other  spheres  of  life,  had  its  Heroes  ;  that  the  mainspring  of 
their  energy  was  Sincerity,  and  the  biudeu  of  their  utterance, 
fruth. 


BOOK  IL 

THE  ART  CRITIC.    (1842-1860.) 

•The  almost  unparalleled  example  of  a  man  winning  for  himself  the 
unanimous  pl.tudiU  of  hiii  generation  and  time,  and  then  castini;  tliein 
awRv  like  ilnst,  that  he  may  build  Lia  luouuuieut — ucie  i>erenniiu.' — 
Kuikin  o»  2'uiiki;  ISii, 


CHAPTER  t 

•TURjnCR  AND  THE  ANCIENTS.'    (1842-1844.) 

AsisTOTLE  :  Eth.,  i.  4. 

THE  ncif;hl)oiir,  or  the  Oxonian  friend,  who  cliinhcd  the 
steps  of  the  Heme  Hill  house  and  called  upon  Mrs. 
lluskin,  in  the  autumn  and  winter  of  184^,  would 
Icam  that  Mr.  John  was  hard  at  work  in  his  own  study  over- 
head. Those  were  its  windows,  on  the  second-flt)i)r,  looking 
out  upon  the  front-gartlen  ;  the  big  dormer-window  above 
was  his  betlroom,  from  which  he  hail  his  grand  view  of  low- 
land, and  far  horizon,  and  unconlined  sky,  comparatively  clear 
of  London  smoke.  In  the  study  itself,  screened  from  the 
roa<l  by  rus-set  foliage  and  thick  evergreens,  great  things  were 
going  on.  Hut  Mr.  John  could  be  interrupted,  would  come 
running  lightly  downstairs,  with  both  hands  out  to  greet  the 
visitor;  would  show  the  pictures,  eagerly  tiemonstrating  the 
beauties  of  the  last  new  Turners,  '  Ehrcnbrcitstein '  and 
'  Lucerne,' just  aci|uiretl,  and  anticipating  the  sunset  glories 
and  mountain  gloom  of  the  '  Goldau  '  and  '  Da/.io  Grande,' 
which  the  great  artist  was  '  realizing'  for  him  from  sketches 
he  hiul  chosen  at  yueen  Anne  Street.  He  wius  very  busy — 
but  never  too  busy  to  see  his  friends — writing  a  book. 

And,  the  visitor  gone,  he  would  run  up  to  his  room  and  hi» 
writing,  sure  of  the  thread  of  his  iiUius  and  the  flow  of  his 
language,  with  none  of  that  misery  and  despair  of  soul  which 
an   iuterruplion    brings   to    majiy  another  author.      In   the 


88  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

afternoon  his  careful  mother  would  turn  him  out  for  a  tramp 
round  the  Norwood  lanes;  he  might  look  in  at  the  Poussins 
and  Claudes  of  the  Dulwich  Gallery,  or,  for  a  longer  excursion, 
go  over  to  IMr.  Windus,  and  his  roomful  of  Turner  drawings, 
or  sit  to  Mr.  George  Richmond  for  the  portrait  at  full  lengtli 
with  desk  and  portfolio,  and  IVIont  Blanc  in  the  background. 
Dinner  over,  another  hour  or  two's  writing,  and  early  to  bed, 
after  finishing  his  chapter  with  a  flourish  of  eloquence,  to  be 
read  next  morning  at  breakfast  to  father  and  mother  and 
Mary.  The  vivid  descriptions  of  scenes  yet  fresh  in  their 
memory,  or  of  pictures  they  treasured,  the  '  thoughts'  as  thev 
used  to  be  called,  allusions  to  sincere  beliefs  and  cherished 
hopes,  never  failed  to  win  the  praise  that  pleased  the  young 
writer  most,  in  happy  teai-s  of  unrestrained  emotion.  These 
old-fashioned  folk  had  not  learnt  the  trick  of  nil  admirari. 
Quite  honestly  they  would  say,  with  the  Geiman  nmsician, 
'  When  I  hear  good  music,  then  must  I  always  weep.' 

We  can  look  into  the  little  study,  and  see  what  this  writing 
was  that  went  on  so  busily  and  steadily.  It  was  the  long- 
meditated  defence  of  Turner,  provoked  by  Blackicood's 
Magazine  six  years  before,  encouraged  by  Carlyle's  '  Heroes,' 
and  necessitated  by  the  silence,  on  this  topic,  of  the  more 
enlightened  leaders  of  thought  in  an  age  of  cut -and -dry 
connoisseurship  and  critical  cant.  True,  there  were  teachers, 
like  Prout  and  Harding,  right,  but  narrow  in  range.  The 
moment  any  author  venturetl  upon  the  subject  of  '  high  art,' 
his  principles  of  beauty  and  theories  of  sublimity  stood  in 
the  way  of  candour  and  common-sense. 

But  'Kata  Phusin'  had  been  to  college,  and  read  liis 
'  Ethics,'  and  he  had  marked  such  a  passage  as  this  :  '  AVe 
must  not  forget  the  difference  between  reasoning  J'rom 
principles  and  reasoning  to  principles.  Plato  was  quite  right 
in  pointing  this  out,  and  in  saying  that  it  is  as  important  in 
philosophy  as  in  running  races  to  know  where  your  starting- 
|ioint  is  to  be.  Now  you  and  I,'  quoth  Aristotle, '  can  reason 
only  upon  what  we  know — not  on  what  we  ought  to  know,  or 
might  be  supposed  to  know,  but  upon  what  each  of  us  has 


♦TURNER  AND  THE  ANCIENTS'  89 

ascertained  to  be  matter  of  fact.  Fact,  then — the  particular 
fact — is  our  startinjj-point.  Take  care  of  the  facts,'  he  says, 
to  jnit  him  into  plain  English,  '  anil  the  principles  will  take 
care  of  themselves.'  Which  Aristotle  did,  and  in  the  sj)here 
of  Ethics  found  that  the  observed  facts  of  conscience  and 
conduct  were  not  truly  explained  by  the  old  moral  philosophy 
of  the  Sophists  and  the  Academy.  Just  in  the  same  way  our 
young  Aristotelian,  by  beginning  with  the  observed  facts  of 
nature — truths,  lie  calleil  them — and  the  practice  (not  the 
precept)  of  great  artists,  sujiei'sedcd  the  eighteenth-century 
Academic  art-theories,  and  created  a  perfectly  new  school  of 
criticisni,  which,  however  erring  or  incomplete  in  details  or 
misapplied  in  corollaries,  did  for  English  art  what  Aristotle 
did  for  Greek  Ethics.  He  brought  the  whole  subject  to  the 
bar  of  common-.sense  and  common  umlerstanding.  He  took 
it  out  of  the  hands  of  ade|)ts  and  initiateil  jargoners,  and 
made  it  public  property,  the  right  and  the  responsibility 
of  all. 

Though  John  Riiskin  had  the  honour  of  doing  this  work 
in  the  world  of  art,  others  were  doing  similar  work  in  other 
spheres.  Most  of  our  sounilest  thinkers  of  the  nineteenth 
century  were  brought  up  on  the  '  Ethics,'  and  leanit  to  take 
fact  for  their  starting-point.  The  physical -science  school, 
whether  clas.>;ically  trained  or  not,  was  working  in  the  same 
cause — the  substitution  of  observation  and  experiment  for 
generalization  and  a  priori  theories.  And  it  is  curious,  aa 
showing  how  accurately  the  young  Uuskin  was  representative 
of  the  spirit  of  his  age,  that  at  the  very  moment  when  he 
was  propounding  his  revolutionary  art-philosophy,  John 
Stuart  Mill  was  writing  that  'I^gic' which  was  to  convert 
the  old  hocus-pocus  of  Scholasticism  into  the  method  of 
mo<km  scientific  incpiiry. 

In  his  later  works  Mr.  Ruskin  appeared  as  somewhat  of  A 
reactionary — laudator  taiij)orij  acti — opponent  of  modernism  ; 
but,  like  many  men  of  note,  he  began  as  a  Progressist,  the 
preai  her  of  ho[K',  the  darter  of  new  lights,  the  destroyer  of 
pythons,   of  tyrannic  superstitious  quibtu  lunun  adcmpium. 


90  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

His  youth  was  an  epoch  of  intellectual  reform,  one  of  many 
such  epochs,  when  the  house  of  life  was  being  set  in  order  for 
another  period's  work  and  wage-earning — no  new  thing,  but 
necessary. 

There  had  been  such  a  clearance  begun  170  years  before 
by  John  Locke,  when  he  took  fact  for  his  starting-point 
in  a  revolt  from  the  tyranny  of  philosophical  dogma.  And 
it  was  not  at  all  strange  that  our  young  author  should  model 
his  manifesto  upon  so  renowned  a  precedent ;  that  his  style 
in  the  opening  chapters  of  his  work,  his  arrangement  in 
divisions  and  subdivisions,  even  his  marginal  summai-ies, 
should  recall  the  'Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding,'  from 
which  the  scheme  and  system  of  his  thought  were  derived. 

He  began,  like  Locke,  by  showing  that  public  opinion  and 
the  dicta  of  tradition  were  no  valid  authorities.  If  painting 
be  an  expression  of  the  human  mind — as,  in  another  way, 
language  is — and  if  the  contents  of  the  mind  are  Ideas,  then, 
he  said,  the  best  painting  is  that  which  contains  the  greatest 
number  of  the  greatest  Ideas.  Locke  had  shown  that  all 
Ideas  are  derived  from  Sensation,  from  Reflection,  and 
from  the  combination  of  both  ;  the  Ideas  which  painting  can 
express  must  be  similarly  derived.  And  since  the  mind  which 
we  share  with  the  Deity  is  nobler  than  the  senses  which  we 
share  with  beasts,  it  war,  logical  to  conclude  that,  in  propor- 
tion as  the  Ideas  expressed  in  painting  are  intellectual  and 
moral,  the  art  that  expresses  them  is  fuller  and  higher. 
Ideas  of  Imitation,  involving  only  thp  illusion  of  the  senses, 
are  the  lowest  of  all ;  those  of  Power,  artistic  execution,  are  a 
step  higher,  but  still  so  much  in  the  realm  of  Sensation  as  to 
be  hardly  matter  of  argument ;  and  therefore  the  Ideas  of 
Tmth,  of  Beauty,  and  of  Relation  (or  the  imaginative  present- 
ment of  poetical  thought  in  the  language  of  painting),  ai'ethe 
three  chief  topics  of  his  inquiry. 

For  the  present  he  will  discuss  Truth,  the  more  readily  as  it 
was  the  general  complaint  that  Turner  was  untrue  to  Nature. 
What  is  Truth  ? 

Ai'istotle  has  stated  plainly  enough,  '  Particular  'act  is  our 


•TURNER  AND  THE  ANCIENTS'  91 

Rtartinjj-point.'  But,  unfortunately,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  our 
olil  J'rionil  Noitheotc's  master,  the  fjreatest  English  artist  and 
art-theorist,  had  faiuij;ht  a  modiliod  Academic  doctrine  ol 
Ideas,  not  Loekeian,  but  Platonic;  and  our  vounjj  philosopher 
lost  his  way  for  the  time  in  tryinjj  to  reconcile  one  favourite 
authority  with  another.  Rut  he  was  able  to  show  that  old- 
fashioned  generalization  was  not  Truth,  and,  quitting  the 
formal  doctrinaire  tone  of  his  opening  chapters,  plunged 
eagerly  into  the  illustration  of  his  theme,  namely,  that  Truth 
in  landsca|)e  art  was  the  expression  of  natural  law  by  exhibit- 
ing such  facts  as  tell  the  storv  of  the  scene.  For  example, 
Canaletto,  with  all  his  wonderful  mechanism,  when  he  painted 
A'enice,  lost  the  fulness  of  detail  and  glory  of  light  and  colour ; 
Prout  secureil  only  the  picture-stjueness  with  his  '  five  strokes 
of  a  reed  pen  ' ;  Slanlield  only  the  detail ;  while  Turner  gave 
the  full  character  of  the  place  in  its  detail,  colour,  light, 
mystery,  and  poetical  eft'ect. 

In  the  analysis  of  natural  fact,  as  shown  in  painting,  there 
wa.s  full  scope  for  the  power  of  descriptive  writing  which,  as 
we  have  .>-een,  was  John  Ruskin's  peculiar  gift  and  study. 
When  he  came  to  compare  Ga.spar  Poussin's  picture  of  La 
Riccia  with  the  real  scene  as  he  had  witnesseil  it,  he  had  the 
description  ready  to  hand  in  his  Journal  of  two  years  before ; 
anil  a  careful  drawing  on  the  spot,  not  indeed  ix-alizing  the 
colour,  which  he  could  not  then  attempt,  but  recording  'the 
noonday  sun  slanting  down  the  rocky  slopes  of  La  Riccia,  and 
its  ma.sses  of  entangled  and  tall  foliage,'  with  their  autumnal 
tints  suggested  so  far  as  his  water-colour  wash  on  gray  paper 
allowed. 

A  still  happier  adaptation  of  accumulated  material  was  his 
word-picture  of  a  night  on  the  Rigi,  with  all  its  wonderful 
BUccev-ive  cllects  of  gathering  thunder,  sunset  in  tempest, 
serene  starlight,  and  the  magic  glories  of  Alpine  sunrise,  taken 
from  the  true  story  of  his  visit  there,  eight  years  before,  as 
descril)od  in  a  rhyming  letter  to  Richard  Fall,  and  ingeniously 
embroidered  with  a  running  comuieutary  on  a  series  of  draw- 
ings by  Turner. 


92  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Tlien,  passing  to  the  forms  of  mountains,  he  warmed  with 
his  old  enthusiasm.  Years  of  study  and  travel  had  taught 
him  to  combine  scientific  geology  with  the  mystery  and 
poetry  of  the  Alps.  Byron  and  Shelley  had  touched  the 
poetry  of  them  ;  a  crowd  of  earnest  investigators  were  work- 
ing at  geology  ;  hut  none  beside  this  youth  of  twenty-three 
had  made  them  the  topic  of  literature  so  lofty  in  aim  and  so 
masterly  in  execution. 

And  as  the  year  ran  out,  he  was  ending  his  work,  happy  in 
the  applause  of  his  little  domestic  circle,  and  conscious  that 
he  was  preaching  the  crusade  of  Sincerity,  the  cause  of  justice 
for  the  greatest  landscape  artist  of  any  age,  and  justice,  at 
the  hands  of  a  heedless  public,  for  the  glorious  works  of  the 
supreme  Artist  of  the  universe.  Let  our  young  painters,  he 
concluded,  go  humbly  to  Nature,  '  rejecting  nothing,  selecting 
nothing,  and  scorning  nothing,'  in  spite  of  Academic  theorists, 
and  in  time  we  shoulil  have  a  school  of  landscape  worthy  of 
the  inspiration  they  would  find. 

There  was  his  book  ;  the  title  of  it,  '  Turner  and  the 
Ancients.'  Before  publishing,  to  get  more  experienced 
criticism  than  that  of  the  breakfast-table,  he  subnntted  it  to 
his  friend,  Mr.  W.  H.  Harrison.  The  title,  it  seemed,  was 
not  explicit  enough,  and  after  debate  they  substituted 
'  Modern  Painters  :  their  Superiority  in  the  Art  of  Landscape 
Painting  to  all  the  Ancient  Masters  proved  by  Examples  of 
the  True,  the  Beautiful,  and  the  Intellectual,  from  the  Works 
of  Modern  Artists,  especially  ft-om  those  of  J.  jNI.  W.  Turner, 
Esq.,  ILA.'  And  as  the  severe  tone  of  many  remarks  was 
felt  to  be  hardly  sujiported  by  the  age  and  stantling  of  so 
young  an  author,  he  was  content  to  sign  himself  'A  Graduate 
of  Oxford.' 

It  is  odd  how  easily  men  of  note  become  the  heroes  of 
myths.  The  too  common  discouragement  of  young  geniuses, 
the  old  story  of  the  rejected  manuscript,  disdainful  publishers, 
and  hope  defencd,  experienced  by  so  many  as  to  be  typical 
of  the  embryo  stage  of  a  literary  reputation,  all  this  has  been 
tacked  on  to  Mr.  Raskin's  supposed  first  start.     Anecdotes 


« TURNER  AND  THE  ANCIENTS'  93 

are  toM  of  his  father  hawkinj;  the  MS.  from  ofTice  to  office 
until  it  foiiiul  aiic|)taiue  with  Messrs.  Smith  and  Elder. 
Al)siinl,  since  vouiilc  Uiiskin  had  bcendoinjj  business  for  seven 
years  |>ast  wilii  tliat  (inn  ;  lie  was  perfectly  well  known  to 
them  as  one  of  the  most  'rising'  youths  of  the  time,  and 
tluir  own  literary  editor,  Mr.  Harrison,  was  his  private 
Mentor,  who  revised  his  proofs  and  inserted  the  punctuation, 
which  he  u^ually  indicateil  only  by  dashes.  And  yet  there  is 
the  half-truth  in  it  that  his  business  dcalinjjs  with  the  pub- 
lishei-s  were  generally  conducted  through  his  father,  who 
made  very  fair  terms  for  him,  as  things  went  then. 

In  May,  lS4.'i,  '  Modem  Painters,'  vol.  i.,  was  published, 
and  it  was  soon  the  talk  of  the  art-world.  It  was  meant 
to  be  audacious,  and  naturally  created  a  storm.  The  free 
criticisms  of  public  favourites  made  an  impression,  not 
because  they  were  put  into  strong  language,  for  the  tone  of 
the  press  was  stronger  then  than  it  is  now,  as  a  whole,  but 
because  they  were  backed  up  by  illustration  and  argument. 
It  wius  evident  that  the  author  knew  something  of  his  subject, 
even  if  iie  were  all  wrong  in  his  conclusions.  He  could  not 
be  neglectcti,  though  he  might  be  protestetl  against,  decried, 
controverted.  Arti^ts  especially,  who  do  not  usually  see  their 
works  as  others  see  them,  and  are  not  accustomed  to  think  of 
themselves  and  tiieir  school  as  mere  dots  anil  spangles  in  the 
pers|)ective  of  history,  could  not  be  entirely  content  to  be 
cla.sse-d  as  Turner's  sjitellites.  Even  the  gentle  Prout  was 
indignant,  not  so  much  at  the  '  five  strokes  of  a  reed  jx-n,' 
but  at  the  want  of  reverence  with  which  his  masters  and 
friends  were  tnated.  Harding  thought  that  his  teaching 
ought  to  ha-  i  been  more  fully  acknowkclgeil.  Turner  was 
embarrassed  at  the  greatness  thrust  upon  him.  Antl  while 
the  book  contained  something  that  promised  to  suit  every 
kind  of  reader,  everyone  found  something  to  shock  liim. 
Critics  were  scandalizetl  at  the  depreciation  of  Claude ;  the 
religious  were  outrngetl  at  the  comparison  of  Turner,  in  a 
passjigc  oniitte<l  from  later  editions,  to  the  Angel  of  Uic  Sun, 
in  the  Apocalypse. 


94  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

But  the  descriptive  passnges  were  such  as  had  never 
appeared  before  in  prose ;  and  the  obvious  usefulness  of  the 
analyses  of  natural  form  and  efi'ect  made  many  an  artist  read 
on,  while  he  shook  his  head.  Some  readily  owned  their 
obligation  to  the  new  teacher.  Holland,  for  one,  wrote  to 
Harrison  that  he  meant  to  paint  the  better  for  the  snubbing 
he  had  got.  Of  profusscd  connoisseurs,  such  as  reviewed  the 
book  adversely  in  Blaclcicood  and  the  Athencrum,  not  one 
undertook  to  refute  it  seriously.  They  merely  attacked  a 
detail  here  and  there,  which  the  author  discussed  in  two  or 
three  replies,  with  a  patience  that  showed  how  confident  he 
was  in  his  position. 

He  had  the  good  word  of  some  of  the  best  judges  of 
literature.  'Modern  Painters'  lay  on  Rogers'  table;  and 
Tennyson,  who  a  few  years  before  had  beaten  young  Ruskin 
out  of  the  field  of  poetry,  was  so  taken  with  it  that  he  wrote 
to  his  publisher  to  borrow  it  for  him,  'as  he  longed  very  much 
to  see  it,'  but  could  not  aftbrd  to  buy  it.  Sir  Henry  Taylor 
wrote  to  Mr.  Aubrey  de  Vere,  the  poet,  begging  him  to  read 
'  a  book  which  seems  to  me  to  be  far  more  deeply  founded  in 
its  criticism  of  art  than  any  other  that  I  have  met  with  .  .  . 
written  with  great  power  and  eloquence,  and  a  spirit  of  the 
most  diligent  investigation.  ...  I  am  told  that  the  author's 
name  is  Ruskin,  and  that  he  was  considered  at  college  as  an 
odd  sort  of  man  who  woukl  never  do  anything.'*  When  the 
secret  of  the  'Oxford  Graduate'  leaked  out,  as  it  did  very 
soon,  through  the  proud  father,  Mr. '  John  was  lionized. 
During  the  winter  of  1843  he  met  celebrities  at  fiishionable 
dinner-tables:  and  now  that  his  parents  were  establisheil  in 
tlieir  grander  house  on  Denmark  Hill,  they  could  duly  return 
the  hospitalities  of  the  great  world. 

It  was  one  very  satisfectory  result  of  th  ■  success  that  the 
fatlier  was  more  or  less  converted  to  Turnerisin,  and  lined  his 
walls  with  Tui-ner  drawings,  which  became  the  great  attraction 
of  the  house,  far  outshining  its  seven  acres  of  garden  and 
orchard  and  shrubbery,  and  the  ampler  air  of  cultured  ease. 
*  From  a  letter  kindly  communicated  by  Mr.  de  Vera. 


'TURNER  AND  THE  ANCIENTS'  95 

Fur  a  pift  to  his  son  he  bought  'The  Slave  Ship,'  one  of 
TuiniT.s  liiti'st  anil  most  ihsputcd  works ;  and  he  was  all 
engciiKss  to  see  the  next  volume  in  preparation. 

It  wtis  intended  to  carry  on  the  discussion  of  'Truth,'  with 
further  illustrations  of  mountain-form,  trees  and  skies.  And 
BO  in  May,  IHH,  they  all  went  away  again,  that  the  artist- 
author  might  pR'j)are  drawings  for  his  plates.  He  was  going 
to  begin  with  the  geology  and  botany  of  Cbamouni,  and  work 
through  the  Alj)s,  eiistward. 

At  Chamouni  they  had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  with 
Joseph  C'outet,  a  superannuated  guide,  whom  they  engageil 
to  accompany  the  eager  but  inexperienccil  mountaineer. 
Cou'et  was  one  of  those  men  of  natural  ability  and  kindli- 
ness whose  friendship  is  worth  more  than  much  intercourse 
with  workllv  celebrities,  and  for  many  years  afterwards  Mr. 
Ru.sk in  had  the  advantage  of  his  care — of  something  more 
than  mire  attendance.  At  any  rate,  under  such  guidance,  he 
could  ciind)  where  he  pleased,  free  from  the  feeling  that  people 
at  home  were  anxious  about  him. 

He  was  not  unad venturous  in  his  scramblings,  but  with  no 
aiid)ition  to  get  to  the  top  of  everything.  He  wanted  to 
observe  the  aspects  of  mountain-form  ;  and  his  careful  out- 
lines, slightly  coloured,  as  his  manner  then  was,  and  never 
aiming  at  picturesque  treatment,  record  the  structure  of  the 
rocks  and  the  state  of  the  snow  with  more  than  photographic 
accuracy.  A  j)hotograph  often  confuses  the  eye  with  un- 
necessjirv  iletail  ;  those  drawings  seized  the  leading  lines,  the 
important  features,  the  interesting  points.  For  example,  in 
his  Matterhorn  (a  drawing  of  184U),  a.s  Mr.  WhymjHjr  remaiks 
in  'Scrambles  among  the  Alps,'  there  are  particulars  noted 
which  the  mere  sketcher  neglects,  but  the  climber  finds  out, 
on  closer  iiiteiioiMse,  to  be  the  essential  facts  of  the  mountain's 
anatomy.  All  this  is  not  piclure-nmking,  but  it  is  a  very 
valuable  contribution  and  preliminary  to  criticism. 

From  Chamouni  this  year  they  went  to  Sini|)lon,  and  mot 
J  1).  I'nrbis,  the  geologist,  whose  '  viscous  tliem-v '  of  glaciers 
Mr.  Uuskin  adopted  and  defended  with  warmth  later  on,  and 


96  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

to  the  Beir  Alp,  long  before  it  had  been  made  a  place  of 
popular  resort  by  Professor  TyndalPs  notice.  The  '  Panorama 
of  the  Simplon  from  the  Bell'  Alp'  is  still  to  be  found  in  the 
St.  George's  (Ruskin)  Museum  at  Sheffield,  as  a  record  of  Ihe 
draughtsmanship  in  this  period.  Thence  to  Zermatt  with 
Osborne  Gordon ;  Zermatt,  too,  unknown  to  the  fashionable 
tourist,  and  innocent  of  hotel  luxuries.  It  is  curious  that,  at 
first  sight,  he  did  not  care  for  the  JVIatterhorn.  It  was  entirely 
unlike  his  ideal  of  mountains.  It  was  not  at  all  like  Cumber- 
land. But  in  a  very  few  years  he  had  come  to  love  the  Alps 
for  their  own  sake,  and  we  find  him  regretting  at  Ambleside 
the  colour  and  light  of  Switzerland,  the  mountain  glory 
which  our  humbler  scenery  cannot  match.  And  yet  he  has 
come  back  to  it  for  a  home,  not  ill-content. 

After  another  visit  to  Chamouni,  he  crossed  France  to 
Paris,  where  something  awaited  him  that  upset  all  his  plans, 
and  turned  his  energies  into  an  unexpected  channeL 


CIIAPl'ER  Th 

CHRISTIAN  ABT.     (1845-1847.) 

'  They  might  chirp  and  chatter,  come  nnd  go 

For  pleasure  or  profit,  her  meu  alive — 

My  busiuesa  was  hanlly  with  them,  I  trow, 

Biit  with  empty  cells  of  the  himiau  hive  } 

With  the  chapter-room,  the  cloister- porch, 

The  church's  apeis,  aisle  or  nave. 
Its  crypt,  oue  fingers  along  with  a  torch. 
Its  face,  set  full  for  the  sun  to  shave.' 

Old  Pictures  in  Florenet. 

AT  Paris,  on  the  way  home  in  1.S44',  Mr.  Riiskin  had 
spent  some  days  in  studying  Titian  and  Ikilini  and 
Pemgino.  Tlicy  were  not  new  to  him ;  but  now  that 
he  was  an  art-critic,  it  behoved  him  to  improve  bis  acijuaint- 
ance  with  the  old  nia-sters.  'To  admire  the  works  of  Pietro 
Porugino'  was  one  thing;  but  to  understand  them  was 
another,  a  thing  which  was  hardly  attempted  by  '  tiic  Land- 
8ca|)e  Artists  of  Kngland '  to  whom  the  author  of  '  Modern 
Painters'  had  so  fur  dedicated  his  services.  lie  had  been 
extolling  modernism,  and  depreciating  'the  Ancients'  because 
they  coulil  not  draw  rocks  and  clouds  anil  trees;  and  he 
was  fresh  from  his  scientific  sketching  in  the  happy  hunting- 
ground  of  the  motlern  world.  A  few  days  in  the  Louvi-e 
made  him  the  devotee  of  ancient  art,  and  tauglit  him  to  lay 
aside  his  geology  for  history. 

In    one    way    the    development    was    ea-sy.      Tlie    patient 
attempt  to  coj)y  mountain-form  had  made  him  sensitive  to 


98  LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

harmony  of  line ;  and  in  the  gi-eat  composers  of  Florence  and 
Venice  he  found  a  quality  of  abstract  design  which  tallied 
with  his  experience  of  what  was  beautiful  in  Nature. 
Aiguilles  and  glaciers,  drawn  as  he  drew  them,  and  the 
figure-subjects  of  severe  Italian  draughtsmen,  arc  beautiful 
by  the  same  laws  of  composition,  however  different  the 
associations  they  suggest.  ^Vith  the  general  public,  and 
with  many  artists,  associations  easily  outweigh  abstractions; 
but  this  was  an  analytic  mind,  bent,  then,  upon  the  problems 
of  form,  anil  ready  to  acknowledge  them  no  less  in  ]\ladounas 
than  in  mountains. 

liut  he  had  been  learning  these  laws  of  beauty  from  Turner 
and  from  the  Alps;  how  did  the  ancients  come  bv  them.''  They 
could  be  found  only  in  a  thorough  study  of  their  lives  and 
times,  to  begin  with,  to  which  he  devoted  his  winter,  with 
Rio  and  Lord  Lindsay  and  JMrs.  Jameson  for  his  authori- 
ties. He  found  that  liis  foes,  Gaspar  Poussin  and  Canaletto, 
and  the  Dutch  landscapists,  were  not  the  real  old  mastei-s; 
that  there  hatl  been  a  great  age  of  art  before  the  era  of 
Vandyck  and  Rubens, — even  before  IMichelangelo  and 
Raphael ;  and  that,  towards  setting  up  as  a  critic  of  the 
present,  he  nmst  understand  the  past  out  of  which  it  had 
grown.  So  he  determined  to  go  to  Floi-ence  and  Venice,  and 
to  study  the  religious  painters  at  first  hand. 

Wountain-study  and  Turner  were  not  to  be  dropped.  For 
example,  to  explain  the  obvious  and  notorious  licences  which 
Turner  took  with  tojjograjihy,  it  was  necessary  to  see  in  what 
these  licences  consisted.  Of  the  later  Swiss  drawings,  one 
of  the  wildest  and  most  impressive  was  the  '  St.  Gothard ' ; 
Ruskin  wanted  to  find  Turner's  point  of  view,  and  to  see 
what  alterations  he  had  made.  He  told  Turner  so,  and  the 
artist,  who  knew  that  his  picture  had  been  realized  from  a 
very  slight  sketch,  was  naturally  rather  opposed  to  this  test, 
as  being,  from  his  point  of  view,  merely  a  waste  of  time  and 
trouble.  He  tried  to  pereuade  the  Ruskins  that  the  Swiss 
Sonderbund  war,  then  going  on,  made  travelling  unsafe,  and 
so  forth.     Rut  in  vain.     jMr.  John  was  allowed  to  go,  for  the 


CHRISTIAN  ART  99 

first  time,  ftlonc,  without  his  parents,  takinp;  only  a  servant, 
an, I  iiRctin;;  tiie  trustworthy  Coutet  nt  Geneva. 

^Vith  seven  months  at  his  own  tlisposjil,  he  did  a  vast 
amount  of  work,  esi)eei)illy  in  drawinij.  Tlie  stu(hcs  of 
niountnin-fonn  and  Italian  design,  in  tlie  year  hefore,  had 
given  liim  a  greater  intcrcst  in  the  '  Liber  Studiorum,' 
Turner's  early  book  of  Essays  in  C'omnosition.  He  found 
there  that  use  of  the  ])ure  line,  about  wuieh  he  has  since  said 
BO  much;  together  with  a  thoughtfully  devised  scheme  of 
hght-and-shade  in  mezzotint ;  devoted  to  the  treatment  of 
landscape  in  the  Siime  spirit  as  that  in  whidi  the  Italian 
niivstei-s  treated  (igure-subjects  in  their  pen-aiid-bistre  studies. 
And  just  as  he  had  imitated  the  Rogers  vignettes  in  his 
boyhood,  now  in  his  youth  he  tried  to  emulate  the  fine 
abstract  flow  and  searching  expressiveness  of  the  etched  line, 
and  the  stuilied  breadth  of  shade,  by  using  the  quill-pen  with 
washes  of  monochrome,  or  sometimes  with  subdued  colour. 
This  dwelling  upon  outline  as  not  only  representative,  but 
decorative  in  itself,  has  sometimes  led  Mr.  Ruskin  into  over- 
emphasis and  a  mannered  grace ;  but  the  value  of  his  j)en- 
and-wash  style  has  never  been  fairly  tested  in  landscape. 
His  best  drawings  are  known  to  very  few;  some  of  his  finest 
work  was  thrown  away  on  subjects  whidi  were  never  com- 
pleted, or  were  ruined  by  rough  experiments  wlicn  he  had 
tired  of  thcni ;  and  no  other  man  with  his  feeling  and  know- 
ledge has  attempted  to  work  in  the  same  method. 

At  first  he  kept  pretty  closely  to  monochrome.  His  object 
was  form,  and  his  special  talent  wjis  for  draughtsmanship 
rather  than  for  colour,  which  developed  quite  late  in  his  life. 
Rut  it  was  this  winter's  study  of  the  '  Liber  Studiorum  '  that 
startetl  him  on  his  own  characteristic  course  ;  and  while  we 
have  no  |)en-and-wa.sh  work  of  his  before  1815  (excc()t  a  few 
experiments  after  Trout),  we  find  him  now  using  the  pen 
continually  during  the  '  .Motlem  Painters'  period. 

On  reaching  the  Lake  of  Geneva  he  wrote,  or  sketched, 
one  of  his  best-known  pieces  of  verse,  '  Mont  Rlanc  Revisited,' 
and  a  few  other  poems  followed,  the  last  of  the  long  scries 
7-2 


100        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

which  had  once  been  his  chief  interest  and  aim  in  life.  With 
this  lonely  journey  there  came  new  and  deeper  fcclin^is  ;  with 
his  increased  literary  power,  fresh  resources  of  diction  ;  and 
he  was  never  so  near  being  a  poet  as  when  he  gave  up  writing 
verse.  Too  condensed  to  be  easily  understood,  too  solemn  in 
their  movement  to  be  trippingly  read,  the  lines  on  'The 
Arve  at  Cluse,'  on  '  j\Iont  Blanc,'  and  '  Tlie  Glacier.'  should 
not  be  passed  over  as  merely  rhetorical.  And  the  reflections 
on  the  loungers  at  Conflans  are  fiill  of  significance  of  the 
spirit  in  which  he  was  gradually  approaching  the  great 
problems  of  his  life,  to  pass  through  art  into  the  earnest 
study  of  human  conduct  and  its  final  cause. 

'Why  Staot)  tb  heee  ail  the  Dat  iDLEf 

•Have  you  in  heaven  no  hope — on  earth  no  care — 

No  foe  in  hell,  ye  things  of  stye  and  stall, 
That  congregate  like  flies,  and  make  the  air 

Rank  with  your  fevered  sloth  ;  that  hourly  call 
The  sun,  which  should  your  servant  be,  to  bear 

Dread  witness  on  you,  with  uncounted  wane 
And  unregarded  rays,  from  peak  to  peak 

Of  fiery-gnonioned  mountain  moved  in  vain  7 
Behold,  the  very  shadows  that  ve  seek 

For  slumber,  write  along  the  wasted  wall 
Tour  condemnation.     They  forget  not,  they. 

Their  ordered  functions  ;  and  determined  fall, 
Nor  useless  perish.     But  you  count  your  day 
By  sins,  and  write  your  difference  from  clay 
In  bonds  you  break,  and  laws  you  disobey. 

•God  !  who  has  given  the  rocks  their  fortitude, 
Their  sap  unto  the  forests,  and  their  food 

And  vigour  to  the  busy  tenantry 

Of  happy  soulless  things  that  wait  on  Thee, 
Hast  Thou  no  blessing  where  Thou  gav'st  Thv  bloodi 

Wilt  Thou  not  make  Thy  fair  creation  whole  ! 
Behold  and  visit  this  Thy  vine  for  good — 

Breathe  in  this  human  dust  its  living  souL' 

He  was  still  deeply  religious — more  deeply  so  than  before, 
and  found  the  echo  of  his  o\vn  thoughts  in  George  Herbert, 
with   whom   he   'communed   in   spirit'   while    he   travelled 


CimiSTlAN.  AllT  •"  101 

tliroiijj;h  the  Al])s.  But  the  forms  of  outward  ic'li«;ion  were 
losing  their  liolil  over  liiiu  in  proportion  as  his  in  a  aril 
religion  beeanie  more  real  anil  inteii.se.  It  was  only  ft  lew 
days  lifter  writing  tliese  lines  that  he  '  broke  the  Sahhath ' 
lor  the  lirst  time  in  his  life,  by  climliing  a  hill  after  church. 
That  was  the  iii-st  shot  iireil  in  a  war,  in  one  of  the  strangest 
and  sndilest  wai-s  between  conscience  anil  reason  that  biography 
records  ;  strange  because  the  op})osing  forces  were  so  neai-ly 
uiatchetl,  and  sad  because  the  struggle  lastetl  until  their  field 
of  battle  was  desolated  before  either  won  a  victory.  Thirty 
yeai-s  later,  the  cleverest  of  his  Oxford  hearers*  drew  his 
portrait  under  the  name  of  the  man  whose  sacred  verse  was 
his  guide  and  mainstay  in  this  youthful  pilgrim's  jirogress, 
and  the  words  put  into  his  mouth  summed  up  with  merciless 
insight  the  issue  of  those  conflicts.  '"  T'or  I !  Whom  am  I 
that  speak  to  you .-'  Am  I  a  believer  ?  No.  I  am  a  doubter 
too.  Once  I  could  pray  every  morning,  and  go  forth  to  inv 
days  labour  stayed  and  comforted,  llut  now  I  can  pray  no 
longer.  Vou  have  taken  my  God  away  from  me,  and  I  know 
not  where  you  have  laid  llim.  My  only  consolation  in  niv 
misery  is  that  I  am  inconsolable  for  liis  loss.  Yes,"  crietl 
j\ir.  Herbert,  his  voice  rising  in  a  kind  of  threatening  wail, 
"  though  you  have  made  nic  miserable,  I  am  not  yet  content 
with  my  misery.  And  though  I  too  have  said  in  my  heart 
that  there  is  no  God,  and  that  there  is  no  more  profit  in 
wisilom  than  in  folly,  yet  there  is  one  folly  that  I  will  not 
give  tongue  to.  I  will  not  say  Peace,  peace,  when  there  is  no 
peace." ' 

Later  on  we  have  to  tell  how  he  dwelt  in  that  Doubting 
Ca-stle,  and  how  he  esca|)ed.  But  the  pilgrim  hail  not  yet 
met  Ciiant  Despair  ;  and  his  progiess  was  very  pleasant  in  tliat 
spring  of  1845,  the  year  of  fine  weather,  as  he  drove  round 
tlie  Uiviera,  and  the  cities  of  Tuscany  opened  out  their 
treasures  to  him.  There  wius  Luccix,  with  San  ri-ediano  and 
thegioriesof  twelfth-century  architecture  ;  I'm  liartulummeo's 
picture  of  the  Madonna  with  the  Magdalen  and  St.  Cathcrino 
•  W.  IL  Mullock,  '  The  New  Republic' 


102        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

of  Siena,  his  initiation  into  the  significance  of  early  religious 
painting  ;  and,  taking  hold  of  his  imagination,  in  her  marble 
sleep,  more  powerfully  than  any  flesh  and  blood,  the  dead 
lady  of  St.  Martin's  Church,  Ilaria  di  Caretto.  There  was 
Pisa,  with  the  jewel  shrine  of  Sta.  IVIaria  della  Spina,  then 
undestroyed  ;  the  excitement  of  street  sketching  among  a 
sympathetic  crowd  of  fraternizing  Italians  ;  the  Abbe  Rosini, 
Professor  of  Fine  Arts,  whom  he  made  friends  with,  endured 
as  lecturer,  and  persuaded  into  scaSbld-building  in  the  Campo 
Santo  for  study  of  the  frescoes.  And  there  was  Florence, 
with  Giotto"s  campanile,  where  the  young  Protestant 
frequented  monasteries,  made  hay  with  monks,  sketched 
with  his  new-found  friends  Rudolf  Durheim  of  Berne  and 
Dieudonne  the  French  purist ;  and  spent  long  days  copying 
Angelico  and  annotating  Ghirlandajo,  fevered  with  the  sun 
of  Italy  at  its  strongest,  and  with  the  rapture  of  discovery, 
'  which  turns  the  unaccustomed  head  like  C'hianti  wine.' 

Coutet  got  him  away,  at  last,  to  the  Alps ;  worn  out  and 
in  despondent  i-eaction  after  all  this  excitement.  He  spent 
a  month  at  INIacugnaga,  reading  Shakespeare  and  trying  to 
draw  boulders ;  drifting  gradually  back  into  strength  enough 
to  attack  the  next  piece  of  work,  the  study  of  Turner  sites 
on  the  St.  Gothard,  where  he  made  the  di-awings  afterwards 
engraved  in  '  IModern  Painters.'  In  August,  J.  D.  Harding 
was  going  to  Venice,  and  arranged  for  a  meeting  at  Baveno,  on 
the  Lago  Maggiore.  Gossip  had  credited  him  with  a  share  in 
'  Modern  Painters ' ;  now  the  tables  were  turned,  and  Griffith 
the  picture-dealer  wanted  to  know  if  it  was  true  thai  John 
Ruskin  had  helped  Harding  with  his  new  book,  just  out. 
They  sketched  together,  Ruskin  perhaps  emulating  his 
friend's  slap-dash  style  in  the  'Sunset'  reproduced  in  his 
'  Poems,'  and  illustrating  his  own  in  the  '  Water-mill.'  And 
so  they  drove  together  to  Verona  and  thence  to  Venice. 

At  Venice  they  stayed  in  Danieli's  Hotel,  on  the  Riva  dei 
Schiavoni,  and  began  by  studying  picturesque  canal-life. 
Mr.  Boxall,  R.A.,  and  Mi-s.  Jameson,  tJie  historian  of  Sacred 
and  Legendary  Ai-t,   were  their  companions.     Another  old 


CHRISTIAN  ART  103 

friend,  Joseph  Severn,  had  in  1843  pained  one  of  the  prizes 
at  the  Westminster  Hail  Cartoons  Competition;  and  a  letter 
from  Mr.  lluskin,  refening  to  the  work  there,  shows  how  he 
still  ponderetl  on  the  suhject  that  had  been  haunting  him  in 
the  Alps.  'With  your  hopes  for  the  elevation  of  English 
art  by  means  of  fresco  I  cannot  sympathize.  ...  It  is  not 
the  material  nor  the  space  that  can  give  us  thougliti,  pa.ssions, 
or  power.  I  see  on  our  Academy  walls  nothing  but  what  is  I 
ignoble  in  small  pictures,  and  would  be  disgusting  in  large 
ones.  ...  It  is  not  the  love  of  fresco  that  we  want;  it  is  I 
the  love  of  God  and  His  creatures;  it  is  humility,  and 
charity,  and  self-denial,  and  fasting,  and  jirayer;  it  is 
a  total  change  of  character.  We  want  more  faith  and  le.ss 
reasoning,  less  strength  and  more  trust.  You  want  neither 
walls,  nor  plaster,  nor  coloui-s — fa  ne  J'a'd  rkn  a  Ttijf'aire ;  it 
is  Giotto,  and  Ghirlandajo,  and  Angelico  that  you  want,  and 
that  you  will  and  must  want  until  this  disgusting  nineteenth 
century  has — I  can't  say  brcathcd,  but  steamed  its  last.'  So 
early  he  had  taken  up  and  wrapped  round  him  the  mantle  of 
Cassandra. 

Hut  he  was  suddenly  to  find  the  sincerity  of  Ghirlandajo 
and  the  religious  significance  of  Angelico  united  with  the 
matured  power  of  art.  Without  knowing  what  they  were  to 
meet,  Harding  and  he  found  themselves  one  day  in  tlie  Scuola 
di  S.  Rocco,  and  face  to  face  with  Tintorct. 

It  was  the  fashion  before  Mr.  Ruskin's  time,  and  it  has 
been  the  ftushion  since,  to  undervalue  Tintoret.  He  is  not 
pious  enough  for  the  purists,  nor  decorative  enough  for  the 
Prc-Raphaelites.  llie  ruin  or  the  restoration  of  almost  all 
his  pictures  makes  it  impossible  for  the  ordinary  amateur  to 
judge  them  ;  they  need  reconstruction  in  the  mind's  eye,  and 
that  is  a  dangerous  process.  Mr.  Ruskin  himself,  as  he  grew 
older,  found  more  interest  in  the  playful  industry  of  Carpaccio 
than  in  the  laborious  games,  the  stupendous  Titan-feats  of 
Tintoret.  But  at  tliis  moment,  solemnized  before  the 
problems  of  life,  he  found  these  problems  hinted  in  the 
mystic  symbolism  of  the  school  of  S.  Rocco:  with  eyes  now 


104        LITE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

opened  to  pre-Reformation  Christianity,  he  found  its  com- 
pleted outcome  in  Tintoret'S  interpretation  of  the  life  of 
Christ  and  the  types  of  the  Old  Testament ;  fresh  from  the 
stormy  grandeur  of  the  St.  Gothard,  he  found  the  lurid  skies 
and  looming  giants  of  the  Visitation,  or  the  Baptism,  or  the 
Crucifixion,  re-echoing  the  subjects  of  Turner  as  '  deep 
answering  to  deep' ;  and,  with  Harding  of  the  Broad  Brush, 
he  recognised  the  mastery  of  landscape  execution  in  the 
Flight  into  Egypt,  and  the  St.  Mary  in  the  Desert. 

He  devoted  the  rest  of  his  time  chiefly  to  cataloguing  and 
copying  Tintoret.  The  catalogue  appeared  in  '  Stones  of 
Venice,'  which  was  suggested  by  this  visit,  and  begun  by 
some  sketches  of  architectural  detail,  and  the  acquisition  of 
daguerreotypes — a  new  invention  which  deliglited  Mr.  Ruskin 
immensely,  as  it  had  delighted  Turner,  with  trustworthy 
records  of  detail  which  sometimes  eluded  even  his  industry 
and  accuracy. 

At  last  his  friends  were  gone ;  and,  left  alone,  he  overworked 
himself,  as  usual,  before  leaving  Venice  with  crammed  port- 
folios and  closely -written  note-books.  At  Padua  he  was 
stopped  by  a  fever ;  all  through  France  he  was  pursued  by 
what,  from  his  account,  appears  to  have  been  some  form  of 
diphtheria,  averted  only,  as  he  believed,  in  direct  answer  to 
earnest  prayer.  At  last  his  eventful  pilgrimage  was  ended, 
and  he  was  restored  to  his  home  and  his  parents. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  was  at  work  again  in  his  new 
study,  looking  out  upon  the  quiet  meadow  and  grazing  cows 
of  Denmark  Hill,  and  rapidly  throwing  into  form  the  fresh 
impressions  of  the  summer.  Still  thoroughly  Aristotelian 
and  Lockeian  in  method,  he  found  no  difficulty  in  making  his 
philosophy  the  vehicle  of  religious  thought.  He  was  strongly 
influenced  by  the  sermons  of  Canon  Melvill — the  same  preacher 
whom  Browning  in  his  youth  admired — a  good  orator  and 
sound  analytic  expositor,  though  not  a  great  or  independent 
thinker.  Osborne  Gordon  had  recommended  him  to  read 
Hooker,  and  he  caught  the  tone  and  style  of  the  '  Ecclesi- 
astical Polity '  only  too  readily,  so  that  much  of  his  work  of 


CHRISTIAN  ART  105 

tTint  winter,  the  more  philosophical  p.irt  of  vol.  ii.,  was 
ilaiiia^tHl  by  inversions,  and  Elizahetlian  qiiaintiioss  as  of 
rulf  and  train,  lon<;  epexcgetical  sentences,  and  far-so\i<;ht 
pomposity  of  diction.  It  was  only  when  he  had  wadcil 
tluoii';h  the  philosophic  chaos,  which  he  .set  himself  to  survey, 
that  he  coulii  lay  asiile  his  borrowed  stilts,  and  stand  on  his 
own  feet,  in  the  Tintoret  dcscri|)tions — rather  stiff,  yet,  from 
foregone  efforts.  Hut,  after  all,  who  writes  philosophy  in 
graceful  Knglish  ? 

This  volume,  like  the  first,  was  written  in  the  winter,  in 
one  long  spell  of  haul  work,  broken  only  by  a  visit  to  Oxford 
in  January  as  the  guest  of  Dr.  Greswell,  Head  of  Worcester, 
at  a  conference  for  the  promotion  of  art.  Smith  and  Elder 
acceptetl  the  book  on  Mr.  J.  J.  Ruskin's  terms  (so  his  wife 
wrote),  for  they  had  alreatly  reported  it  as  called  for  by  the 
public.  The  first  volume  had  been  reprinted  once,  and  was 
going  into  a  third  edition. 

When  his  book  came  out  he  was  away  again  in  Italy,  trying 
to  show  his  father  all  that  he  had  .seen  in  the  Campo  Santo 
and  Giotto's  Tower,  and  to  exjilain  '  why  it  more  than 
startle<l  him.'  The  good  man  hardly  felt  the  force  of  it  all 
at  once.  How  shoulil  he.'  And  there  were  little  passages  of 
arms  and  some  heart-ijuaking  and  head-shaking,  until  Mr. 
Dale,  the  old  schoolmaster,  wrote  that  he  had  heard  no  less  a 
man  than  Sydney  Smith  mention  the  new  book  in  public,  in 
the  j)resence  of  'distinguished  literary  characteiV  as  a  work 
of  'transcendent  talent,  presenting  the  most  original  views, 
in  the  most  elegant  and  powerful  language,  which  would  work 
a  complete  revolution  in  the  world  of  taste.' 

^\■llen  he  returned  home  it  Wius  to  linil  a  respectful  welcome. 
His  word  on  mattei-s  of  Art  was  now  really  worth  something, 
and  before  long  it  w»is  calletl  for.  The  National  Gallery  was 
comparatively  in  its  infancy.  It  hot!  been  esbd)lished  less 
than  twenty-five  years,  and  its  manager,  Mr.  Kastlake  (after- 
wards Sir  Charles),  had  his  hands  full,  what  with  rascally 
dealers  in  forged  olil  mastei-s,  and  incompetent  picture^ 
cJemiei-s,  and  an  economical  Government,  and  a  public  that 


106        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

neither  knew  its  o^vn  mind  nor  ti-usted  his  judgment.  A 
great  outcry  was  set  up  against  him  for  buving  bad  works, 
and  spoiling  the  best  by  restoration.  IVIr.  Ruskin  wrote  vei-y 
temperately  to  the  Times,  pointing  out  that  the  damage  had 
b-'en  slight  compared  with  what  Mas  being  done  everywhere 
else,  and  suggesting  that,  prevention  being  better  than  cure, 
the  pictures  should  be  put  under  gla;is,  for  then  they  would 
not  need  the  recurring  attentions  of  tlie  restorer.  But  he 
blamed  the  management  for  spending  large  sums  on  added 
examples  of  Guido  and  Rubens,  while  they  had  no  Angelico, 
no  Ghirlandajo,  no  good  Perngino,  only  one  Bellini,  and,  in 
a  word,  left  his  new  friends,  the  early  Christian  artists,  un- 
represented. He  suggested  that  pictures  might  be  picked  up 
for  next  to  nothing  in  Italy  ;  and  he  begged  that  the  collection 
might  be  made  historical  and  educational  by  being  fully  re- 
presentative, and  chronologically  aiTanged. 

Such  ideals  cannot  be  realized  at  a  stroke;  but  as  we  walk 
round  our  Gallery  now  we  can  be  thankful  that  his  voice  was 
raised,  and  not  in  vain  ;  and  rejoice  that  in  many  a  case  justice 
has  been  done  to  '  the  wronged  great  soul  of  an  auciwit 
master.' 


CIIArTER  IIL 

•THE  SEVEN  LAMPS.'    (1847-1849.) 

•Tliey  dreamt  not  of  a  perishable  home 
AVho  thus  could  build.' 

Wordsworth. 

H.\^'E  vou  redd  an  Oxford  Grnduate's  "  Letters  on 
Art"?'  wrote  Miss  :\Iitford,  of  'Our  Villajie;  on 
January  27,  1847.  'Tlie  author,  Mr.  Ruskin,  was 
here  la.st  week,  and  is  certainly  the  most  charming  person 
that  I  have  ever  known.'  The  friendship  thus  begun  lasted 
until  lier  death.  Slic  encouraged  him  in  his  work ;  she 
delighted  in  his  success  ;  and,  in  the  grave  reverses  which  were 
to  befall  him,  he  found  her  his  most  faithful  su|iporter  and 
most  sympathetic  consoler.  In  ix-tum,  '  his  kindness  cheered 
her  closing  days  ;  he  sent  her  every  book  that  would  interest 
and  every  delicacy  that  would  strengthen  her,  attentions 
which  will  not  suqnise  those  who  have  heard  of  his  large  and 
thoughtful  generosity.'* 

It  was  natural  that  a  rising  man,  so  closely  connected  with 
Scotland,  should  be  welcomed  by  the  leaders  of  the  Scottish 
school  of  literature.  Sydney  Smith,  a  former  Edinburgh 
professor,  had  praised  the  new  volume.  John  Murray,  as  it 
seems  from  lettere  of  the  period,  made  overtures  to  secure 
the  author  as  a  contributor  to  his  Italian  guide-books. 
Ixjcklmrt  employetl  him  to  write  for  the  Qitarterlij  Review. 

Lockhart  was  a  pei-son  of  great  interest  for  young  Uuskin, 

♦  '  The  Friendship*  of  Mary  BuMell  Mitford,"  edited  by  the  Kev.  A. 
G.  L' Estrange. 


108        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

who  worshipped  Scott ;  and  Lockhart's  daughter,  even  with- 
out her  personal  charm,  would  have  attracted  him  as  the 
actual  gianckhild  of  the  great  Sir  ^Valter.  It  was  for  her 
sake,  he  says,  rather  than  for  the  honour  of  writing  in  the 
famous  Quarterly,  that  he  undertook  to  review  Loiil 
Linilsay's  '  Christian  Art.' 

He  was  known  to  be  a  suitor  for  Miss  Lockharfs  hand 
His  father,  in  view  of  the  success  he  desired,  had  been  in 
February  looking  out  for  a  house  in  the  Lake  District ; 
hoping,  no  doubt,  to  see  him  settled  there  as  a  sort  of 
successor  to  AN'ordsworth  and  Christopher  North.  In  March, 
John  Ruskin  betook  himself  to  the  Salutation  at  Ambleside, 
with  his  constant  attendant  and  amanuensis  George,  for 
quiet  after  a  tiring  winter  in  London  society,  and  for  his 
new  labour  of  reviewing.  But  he  did  not  find  himself  so 
fond  of  the  Lakes  as  of  old.  He  wrote  to  his  mother 
(Sunday,  ]\Iarch  28,  1847)  : 

'  I  finished — and  scaled  up — and  addressed — my  last  bit  of 
work,  last  night  by  ten  o'clock^ready  to  send  by  to-day's 
post — so  that  my  father  should  receive  it  with  this.  I  could 
not  at  all  have  done  it  had  I  stayed  at  home  :  for  even  with 
all  the  quiet  here,  I  have  had  no  more  time  than  was  necessary, 
for  exercise.  I  find  the  rowing  very  useful,  though  it  makes 
me  melancholy  with  thinking  of  1838, — and  the  lake,  when 
it  is  quite  calm,  is  wonderfully  sad  and  quiet : — no  bright 
colours — no  snowy  peaks.  Black  water — as  still  as  death  ; — 
lonely,  rocky  islets — leafless  woods, — or  worse  than  leafless — the 
brown  oak  foliage  hanging  dead  upon  them  ;  gray  sky  ; — far- 
off,  wild,  dark,  dismal  moorlands ;  no  sound  except  the 
rustling  of  the  boat  among  the  reeds.  .  .  . 

'  One  o'clock: — I  have  your  kind  note  and  my  father's,  and 
am  very  thankful  that  you  like  what  I  have  written,  for  I 
did  not  at  all  know  myself  whether  it  were  good  or  bad.' 

In  the  early  summer  he  went  to  Oxford,  for  a  meeting  of 
the  British  Association.     He  said  (June  27,  1847) : 

'  I  am  not  able  to  write  a  full  account  of  all  I  see,  to  amuse 
you,  for  I  find  it  necessary  to  keep  as  quiet  as  I  can,  and  I 


'THE  SEX-EN  LA^irS'  lO'J 

ear  it  woulil  onlv  nnnov  von  to  be  told  of  all  tlic  invitations 
nfusc.  and  all  tlio  iiiti-ii'stinij  matters  in  wliiili  I  tai<c  no 
lart.  Tlicre  is  notliini,'  for  it  hut  tlirowinjj  one's  self  into 
lie  streanj,  and  fl"'"o  <lown  with  one\s  arms  under  water, 
L-ady  to  be  carried  anywhere,  or  do  anythinjjj.  My  friends 
re  all  busy,  and  tired  to  death.  All  the  nicmbei-s  of  my 
?ition,  but  espeiially  (IMward)  Forbes,  Sedgwick,  Alurehison, 
n<l  Loril  Northampton — and  of  course  Ihickland.  are  as  kind 
)  ine  as  men  can  be;  but  I  am  tormented  by  the  [uipelual 
"nse  of  my  unmitiijated  i;;norance,  for  I  know  no  more  now 
liaii  I  did  when  a  boy,  and  1  have  only  one  jHrpetunl  feeliiif; 
f  beinu  in  everybody's  way.  The  i-ecoileetions  of  the  place, 
30,  and  the  beinj^  in  my  old  rooms,  make  me  very  mi.serable. 
have  not  one  moment  of  |)rofitnhly  spent  time  to  look  back 
1  while  I  was  liere,  and  much  useless  labour  and  disajipointed 
opo;  and  I  can  neither  bear  the  excitement  of  bciiij;  in  tlic 
H-iety  where  the  piav  of  mind  is  constant,  and  rolls  over  me 
ke  heavy  wheels,  nor  the  pain  of  bein;;  alone.  I  };et  away 
»  the  evenin'.;s  into  the  hayfields  about  Cumnor,  and  rest ;  but 
lien  my  failin^j  siij;ht  plagues  me.  I  cannot  look  at  anythin<^ 
s  I  use<l  to  do,  and  the  eveninfj  sky  is  covered  with  swim- 
linfj  striiifjs  and  eels.  My  best  time  is  while  I  am  in  the 
?ction  room,  for  thou<^h  it  is  hot,  and  sometimes  weari.sonie, 
et  I  have  nothin^r  to  sat/, — little  to  do, — nothing  to  look  at, 
nd  as  much  as  I  like  to  hear.' 

He  had  to  undergo  a  .second  disappointment  in  love;  his 
ealth  broke  down  again,  and  he  was  sent  to  Ix>aminjiton  to 
is  former  «Ioctor,  .leplison,  once  nn)re  a  'consumptive' 
aticnt.  Dietetl  into  health,  he  went  to  Scotland  with  a 
ew  found  fricn<l,  Mr.  XN'illiam  Macdonald  Macdonald  of 
t.  Martin's  and  Crossmount.  Hut  he  had  no  taste  for  sport, 
nd  could  make  little  use  of  his  opportunities  for  distraction 
lid  relaxation.  One  battue  was  enoujjh  for  him,  and  the 
st  of  the  visit  was  spent  in  morbid  despondency,  difjijinff 
listles,  and  broo<lin;;  over  the  significance  of  the  curse  of 
den,  so  stranfjely  now  interwoven  with  his  own  life — 
rhoms  also  and  thistles.' 


110        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

At  Bower  s  Well,  Perth,  where  his  grandparents  had  spent 
their  later  years,  and  where  his  parents  had  been  married, 
lived  some  old  acquaintances  of  the  lluskin  family.  Tlieir 
daughter  used  to  visit  at  Denmark  Hill.  It  was  for  her 
that,  some  years  earlier,  'The  King  of  the  Golden  River' 
had  been  written.  She  had  grown  up  into  a  perfect  Scotch 
beauty,  with  every  gift  of  health  and  spirits  which  would  com- 
pensate— the  old  folk  thought — for  his  retiring  and  morbid 
nature.  They  were  anxious,  now  more  than  ever,  to  see  him 
settled.  They  pressed  him,  in  letters  still  extant,  to  propose. 
We  have  seen  how  he  was  situated,  and  can  understand  how 
he  persuaded  himself  that  fortune,  after  all,  was  about  to 
smile  upon  him.  Her  family  had  their  own  reasons  for  pro- 
moting the  match,  and  all  united  in  hastening  on  the  event — 
alike  '  dreaming  of  a  perishable  home.' 

In  the  Notes  to  Exhibitions  added  to  a  new  edition  of 
'  Modern  Painters,'  then  in  the  press,  the  author  mentions 
a  'hurried  visit  to  Scotland  in  the  spring'  of  1S4S.  This 
was  the  occasion  of  his  mamage  at  Perth,  on  April  10.  The 
young  couple  spent  rather  more  than  a  fortnight  on  the  way 
South,  among  Scotch  and  English  lakes,  intending  to  make 
a  more  extended  tour  in  the  summer  to  the  cathedrals  and 
abbeys. 

The  pilgrimage  began  with  Salisbury,  where  a  few  days' 
sketching  in  the  damp  and  draughts  of  the  cathedral  laid 
the  bridegroom  low,  and  brought  the  tour  to  an  untimely 
end.  When  he  was  thought  to  be  recovered,  the  whole 
family  started  for  the  Continent;  but  a  relapse  in  the  patient's 
condition  brought  them  back.  At  last,  in  August,  the  young 
people  were  seen  safely  off  to  Normandy,  where  they  went 
by  easy  stages  from  town  to  town,  studying  the  remains  of. 
Gothic  building.  In  October  they  returned,  and  settled  in  a 
house  of  their  own,  at  31,  Park  Street,  where  during  the 
winter  Mr.  Ruskin  wrote  'The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,' 
find,  as  a  bit  of  by-work,  a  notice  of  Samuel  Prout  for  the 
Art  Journal. 

This  was  Mr.  Ruskin  s  first  illustrated  volume.     The  plates 


«TI1E  SEVEN  LAMPS'  111 

rere  cn'::rave(l  by  himself  in  soft-jn'oiinf'  ctcliinjj,  siiili  as 
•rout  hail  used,  from  dmwinnjs  he  had  made  in  LS-KJ  ami 
iStS.  Some  are  scra|i|)y  coml)inntions  of  various  detail,  hut 
ithers,  such  as  the  Uy/antine  capital,  the  window  in  Giotto's 
'ampaiiile,  the  anhis  from  St.  Lo  in  Normandy,  from  St. 
iliihile  at  Lucca,  and  from  the  (V  Foscari  at  Venice,  are 
H'ective  studies  of  the  actual  look  of  old  hnildiuijs,  seen  as 
hey  are  .shown  us  in  Nature,  with  her  liijht  and  shade  added 

0  all  the  facts  of  form,  and  her  own  last  touches  in  the  way 
if  weather-softening,  and  settling-faults,  and  tufted,  nestling 
(lants. 

Uevisiting  the  Hotel  de  la  Cloche  at  Dijon  in  later  years, 
klr.  lluskin  showed  me  the  room  where  he  had  'bitten'  the 
ftst  plate  in  his  wash-hanil  ba.sin,  as  a  careless  makeshift  for 
he  regular  etcher's  bath.  lie  wjis  not  dissatisfied  with  his 
fork  himself;  the  public  of  the  day  wanted  something  more 
inisheil.  So  the  .second  edition  a))pe.ired  with  the  subjects 
laboratelv  popularized  in  fasliionahle  engraving.  More 
vcentiy  they  have  undergone  reduction  for  a  cheap  issue. 
Jut  any  true  lover  of  lluskin  knows  the  value  of  the  real 
triginal  '  Seven  Lamps '  with  its  San  Miniato  cover  and 
lutograph  plates. 

As  to  its  reception,  or  at  le.ist  the  anticipation  of  it,  Char- 
otte    Bronte    beare    witness   in    a    letter  to    the   publislici-s. 

1  have  lately  been  ix'ailing  "Modern  I'aihters,"  and  have 
lerivetl  fmm  the  work  nuich  genuine  jjleasure,  and,  I  hope, 
ome  itlilication ;  at  any  rate,  it  has  made  me  feel  how 
gnorant  I  bad  previously  been  on  the  subject  which  it  treats. 
;lithei-to  I  have  only  had  instinct  to  guide  me  in  judging  of 
irt;  I  feel  now  as  if  I  had  been  walking  blindfold — this  book 
ccnis  to  give  me  new  eyes.  I  do  wish  I  hid  pictmcs  within 
vach  by  which  to  test  the  new  .sense.  Who  can  read  these 
flowing  ilescrijjtions  of  Turner's  work  without  longing  to  st-e 
Jiem .' 

*  I  like  this  author's  style  much ;  there  is  both  energy  and 
)cauty  in  it.  I  like  himself,  too,  bccau.se  he  is  such  a  hearty 
idiuirer.  I  le  dues  not  give  balf-uieosure  of  praise  or  veneration. 


112        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

He  euloirizes,  he  reverences,  with  his  whole  soul.  One  can 
svmjiathize  with  that  sort  of  devout,  serious  admiration, 
for  he  is  no  rhapsodist ;  one  can  respect  it;  yet,  possibly, 
uianv  ])eople  would  laugh  at  it. 

'  I  congratulate  you  on  the  approaching  publication  of  Mr. 
Riisl  ill's  new  work.  If  "  The  Seven  I>ainps  of  Architecture  " 
resemble  their  predecessor,  "  Modern  Painters,"  they  will  be 
no  lamps  at  all,  but  a  new  constellation, — seven  bright  stars, 
for  whose  rising  the  reading  world  ought  to  be  anxiously 
agape.' 

The  book  was  announced  for  his  father's  birthday.  May  10, 
1849,  and  it  appeared  while  they  were  among  the  Alps.  The 
earlier  part  of  this  tour  is  pretty  fully  described  in  '  Pra?terita,' 
II.  xi.,  and  '  Fors,'  letter  xc,  and  so  the  visit  of  Richard 
Fall,  the  meeting  with  Sibylla  Dowie,  and  the  death  of  cousin 
Mary  need  not  be  dwelt  on  here.  From  the  letters  that 
passed  between  fiither  and  son  we  find  that  Mr.  John  had 
been  given  a  month's  leave  from  July  23  to  explore  the 
Higher  Alps,  with  Coutet  his  guide  and  George  his  valet. 
The  old  people  stayed  at  the  Hotel  des  Bergues,  and  thought 
of  little  else  but  their  son  and  his  affairs,  looking  eagerly 
from  day  to  day  for  the  last  news,  both  of  him  and  of  his 
book. 

Mr.  Ruskin  senior  writes  from  Geneva  on  July  29 :  '  Miss 
Twcddale  says  your  book  has  made  a  great  sensation.''  On 
the  31st:  'Thiers  has  surprised  and  delighted  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies  by  your  doctrine  of  no  such  thing  as  Liberty. 
I  think  he  has  borrowed.'  On  August  4  :  '  The  Spectator, 
which  Smith  sets  great  value  on,  has  an  elaborate  favourable 
notice  on  "Seven  Lamps,"  only  ascribing  an  injirmiti/  of 
temper,  quoting  raih'oad  passage  in  proof.  Anne  was  told  by 
American  family  servant  that  you  were  in  American  paper, 
and  got  it  for  us,  the  A^ezv  York  Tribune,  of  July  13 ;  hi-st 
article  is  your  book.  They  say  they  are  willing  to  be  learners 
from,  rather  than  critics  of,  such  a  book,  etc.  The  Daily 
Neics  (some  of  the  Punch  peojile's  paper)  has  a  capital  notice. 
It  begins :  "  This  is  a  masked  battery  of  seven  pieces,  which 


•THE  SEVEN  LAMPS'  113 

Mare  away  to  the  total  extinction  of  the  small  architectural 
li-^lits  we  nijiy  l)onst  of,  etc.,  etc."'  On  Aii;!;ust  5  :  'I  have, 
it  (I  shiiiiu'fiil  chiirj^c  of  ten  fiiuus,  <Tot  Au^rust  magazine  anil 
Ditkens,  quite  a  prohibition  for  parcels  from  England.  In 
ItrUixh  (Jiiiirterh/,  under  a-sthetics  of  Gothic  arcliitecture 
Ihey  take  four  woiks,  you  (ii-st.  ...  As  a  critic  they  almost 
rank  you  with  Goethe  and  Coleridge,  and  in  style  with  Jeremy 
Taylor.'  The  quiililicd  encourngement  of  these  remarks  was 
farther  qualified  with  detailcti  advice  about  health,  and 
warnings  against  the  perils  of  the  way,  to  which  Mr.  John 
used  to  answer  ou  this  wise  : 

•CORMAYECR, 

'  Surviay  afternoon 

'  {July  29,  1S49). 
*  Mv  DFAnrsT  F.vTiiFn, 

'(Put  the  tiuee  sheets  in  order  first,  1,  2,  3,  then  read 
this,  front  anil  back,  anil  then  S2,  and  then  3,  front  and  back.) 
You  and  my  mother  were  doubtless  very  happy  when  you 
saw  the  day  clear  up  as  you  left  St.  Martin's.  Truly  it  was 
impossible  that  any  day  could  be  more  perfect  towards  iti 
clo.se.  We  reached  Nant  IJourant  at  twelve  o'clock,  or  a  little 
before,  and  C'outet  having  given  his  sjinction  to  my  wish  to 
get  on,  we  started  again  soon  after  one — and  reacheil  the  top 
of  the  Col  lie  Honiionnne  about  live.  You  would  have  been 
delighted  with  tiiat  view — it  is  one  upon  tho.se  lovely  seas  of 
blue  mountain,  one  behind  the  other,  of  which  one  never 
tirps — this,  fortunately,  westward — so  that  all  the  blue  ridges 
and  ranges  alwve  Conflans  and  Heaufort  were  dark  against 
the  afternoon  sky,  though  misty  with  its  light ;  while  east- 
ward a  range  of  snowy  crests,  of  which  the  most  important 
was  the  Mont  Iseran,  caught  the  sunlight  full  upon  them. 
The  sun  was  as  warm,  and  the  air  a.s  mild,  on  the  place  where 
the  I'.ngli>li  travellers  Mink  and  perished,  a.s  in  our  garden  at 
Denmark  Ildl  oti  the  siunmer  evenings.  There  is,  however, 
no  small  excuse  for  a  man's  losing  courage  on  that  pa.ss,  if  the 
weather  were  foul.  I  never  saw  one  so  literally  pathless — so 
void  of  all  guide  ani'  help  from  the  lie  of  the  ground — so 


114        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

embarrassing  from  the  distance  which  one  has  to  wind  round 
mere  brows  of  craggy  precipice  without  knowing  the  direction 
in  which  one  is  moving,  while  the  path  is  perpetually  lost  in 
heaps  of  shale  or  among  clusters  of  crags,  even  when  it  is  free 
of  snow.  All,  however,  when  I  passed  was  serene,  and  even 
beautiful — owing  to  the  glow  which  the  red  rocks  had  in  the 
sun.  We  got  down  to  Chapiu  about  seven — itself  one  of  the 
most  desolately-placed  villages  I  ever  saw  in  the  Alps.  Scot- 
land is  in  no  place  that  I  have  seen,  so  barren  or  so  lonely. 
Ever  since  I  passed  Shapfells,  when  a  child,  I  have  had  an 
excessive  love  for  this  kind  of  desolation,  and  I  enjoyed  my 
little  chalet  window  and  my  chalet  supper  exceedingly 
(mutton  with  garlic).' 

He  then  confesses  that  he  woke  in  the  night  with  a  sore 
throat,  but  struggled  on  next  day  down  the  Allee  Blanche  to 
Cormayeur. 

'I  never  saw  such  a  mighty  heap  of  stones  and  dust.  The 
glacier  itself  is  quite  invisible  from  the  road  (and  I  had  no 
mind  for  extra  work  or  scrambling),  except  just  at  the  bottom, 
where  the  ice  appeai-s  in  one  or  two  places,  being  exactly  of 
the  colour  of  the  heaps  of  waste  coal  at  the  Newcastle  pits, 
and  admirably  adapted  therefore  to  realize  one's  brightest 
anticipations  of  the  character  and  style  of  the  Allee  Blanche. 

'  The  heap  of  its  moraine  conceals,  for  the  two  miles  of  its 
extent,  the  entire  range  of  ]Mont  Blanc  from  the  eye.  At 
last  you  weather  the  mighty  promontory,  cross  the  torrent 
which  issues  from  its  base,  and  find  yom^self  suddenly  at  the 
very  foot  of  the  vast  slope  of  torn  granite,  which  from  a  point 
not  200  feet  lower  than  the  summit  of  IMont  Blanc,  sweeps 
down  into  the  valley  of  Cormayeiu-. 

'  I  am  quite  unable  to  speak  with  justice — or  think  with 
clearness — of  this  marvellous  view.  One  is  so  unused  to  see  a 
mass  like  that  of  IMont  Blanc  without  any  snow  that  ail  my 
ideas  and  modes  of  estimating  size  were  at  fault.  I  only  felt 
overpowered  by  it,  and  that — as  with  the  porch  of  Rouen 
Cathedral — look  as  I  would,  I  could  not  see  it.     I  had  not 


Jim 


«TiiE  sem;:n  LA:Mrs'  115 

mind  enongh  to  prasp  it  or  meet  it.  I  tried  in  vain  to  fix 
some  of  its  main  fwitnrcs  on  my  memory  ;  tlicn  set  tiic  mules 
to  graze  again,  and  took  my  sketcii-book,  and  marked  tlie  out- 
lines— but  where  is  tlie  use  of  marking  contoui-s  of  a  mass  of 
endless — countless — fantiustic  rock — 1;2,000  feet  sheer  above 
the  valley  ?  IJesiiles,  one  cannot  have  sliarp  sore-throat  for 
twelve  hours  without  its  bringing  on  some  sliglit  feverish- 
ncss  ;  and  the  scorching  Al|)ine  sun  to  whicli  we  had  been 
exposed  without  an  instant's  cessation  fi'oin  the  height  of  the 
col  till  now — i.e.,  from  half-))ast  ten  to  three— had  not 
mended  the  matter ;  my  pulse  was  now  beginning  slightly 
to  quicken  and  my  head  slightly  to  ache — and  my  impression 
of  the  scene  is  feverish  and  somewhat  painful;  I  should  think 
like  yours  of  the  valley  of  Sixt.' 

So  he  finished  his  drawing,  tramped  down  the  valley  after 
his  nnile,  in  dutiful  fear  of  incrcji-sing  his  cold,  and  found 
Cormaveur  crowdetl,  only  an  attic  'au  (]uatricme'  to  be  had. 
After  trying  to  doctor  himself  with  gray  pill,  kali,  and  senna, 
Coutet  cured  his  throat  with  an  alum  gargle,  and  they  went 
over  the  Col  Ferret. 

The  courier  I'fister  had  been  sent  to  meet  him  at  Martigny, 
and  bring  latest  news  and  personal  report,  on  the  strength  of 
which  several  days  passed  without  lettei-s,  but  not  without  a 
remonstrance  from  headijuaiters.  On  August  8  he  writes 
from  Zermatt : 

'I  have  your  three  letters,  with  pleasant  accounts  of 
critiques,  etc.,  and  painful  accounts  of  vour  anxieties.  I 
certaiidy  never  thought  of  putting  in  a  letter  at  Sion,  as  I 
arrived  there  about  three  hours  after  ri>tcr  left  me,  it  being 
only  two  stages  from  Martigny  ;  and  bisides,  I  hail  enough  to 
do  that  morning  in  thinking  what  I  should  want  at  Zermatt, 
and  was  engagi-d  at  Sion,  while  we  i  hanged  hoi-ses.  in  buving 
wax  candles  luid  rice.  It  was  unlucky  tliut  1  lost  post  at 
Visp,'  etc. 

A  few  days  later  he  says : 

•  On  Friilav  I  had  such  a  day  as  I  have  only  once  or  twice 
8-2 


116        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

had  tlie  like  of  among  the  Alps.  I  ^rot  up  to  a  promontory 
piojectiiifr  from  the  foot  of  the  IMatterborn,  ami  lay  on  the 
rocks  and  drew  it  at  my  ease.  I  was  a'uout  three  hours  at- 
woi-k  as  quietly  as  if  in  my  study  at  Denmark  Hill,  thounh  on 
a  j)cak  of  barren  crag  above  a  glacier,  and  at  least  9,000  feet 
above  sea.  But  the  Watteihorn,  after  all,  is  not  so  fine  a 
thing  as  the  aiguille  Dru,  nor  as  any  one  of  the  aiguilles  of 
Chaniouni :  for  one  thing,  it  is  all  of  secondary  rock  in 
horizontal  beds,  quite  rotten  and  shaly  ;  but  there  are  other 
causes  of  difference  in  impressiveness  which  I  am  endeavouring 
to  analyze,  but  find  considerable  embarrassment  in  doing  so. 
There  seems  no  sufficient  reason  why  an  isolated  obelisk,  one- 
fourth  higher  than  any  of  them,  should  not  be  at  least  as 
sublime  as  they  in  their  dependent  grouping ;  but  it  assuredly 
is  not.  For  this  reason,  as  well  as  because  I  have  not  found 
here  the  near  studies  of  primitive  rock  I  expected, — for  to  my 
great  surprise,  I  find  the  whole  group  of  mountains,  mighty 
as  they  are,  except  the  inaccessible  Monte  Rosa,  of  secondary 
limestones  or  slates, — I  should  like,  if  it  were  ])ossible,  to  spend 
a  couple  of  days  more  on  the  jMontanvert,  and  at  the  bases  of 
the  Chaniouni  aiguilles,  sleeping  at  the  jMontanvert.'  And 
so  on,  apologetically  begging  (as  other  sons  beg  money) 
for  time,  to  gather  the  material  of  '  Modern  Painters,' 
volume  iv. 

'  I  hope  you  will  think  whether  the  objects  you  are  after 
are  worth  risks  of  sore  throats  or  lungs,'  rejilicd  his  father,  for 
he  had  '  personified  a  perpetual  influenza '  until  they  got  him 
to  Switzerland,  and  they  were  very  anxious ;  indeed,  Pfister's 
news  from  Martigny  had  scared  his  mother — not  very  well  her- 
self— into  wild  plans  for  recapturing  him.  However,  Osborne 
Gordon  was  going  to  Chaniouni  \\ith  ]Mr.  Pritchaid,  and  so 
they  gave  him  a  liltle  longer.  Anil  he  niaile  the  best  use  of 
his  time. 

'  Monday  evening 

'{Auijust  iO,  1849). 
'Mv  deahest  Fatiteb, 

I  have  to-night  a  packet  of  back  letters  from  Viege 
,  •  .  but  I  have  really  hardly  time  to  read  them  to-night,  I 


•THE  SEVEN  LAMPS'  117 

hn(\  so  many  notes  to  secure  when  I  came  from  the  hills.  I 
walk  U|)  iverv  ilnv  to  the  biuse  of  tlic  ftijjuillcs  witliout  the 
Rii<;htcst  sen^.t.'  of  fatif^ue;  work  tlici-c  nil  day  Iminmciing  and 
skitiliiiijj;  and  down  in  the  evcninij.  As  far  as  days  hy 
myself  tan  ho  happy  tlicy  arc  so,  for  I  love  the  place  with  all 
my  heart.  I  have  no  ovcr-fatijiue  or  lahoiir,  nnil  plenty  of 
time.  Uy-the-hy,  tlioii;;h  in  most  iisjiccts  they  are  inca])al)le 
of  improvement,  I  rei-ollett  that  I  thiiii;;ht  to-day,  as  I  was 
breakinfj  last  nijiht's  ice  away  from  the  rocks  of  which  I  wanted 
a  specimen,  with  a  sharpish  wind  and  small  i)e])pcr  and  salt- 
like sleet  heating  in  my  face,  that  a  hot  chop  and  a  glass  of 
sherry,  if  thev  were  to  be  had  round  the  corner,  would  make 
the  thing  more  perfect.  There  wius  however  nothing  to  be 
had  round  the  corner  but  some  Iceland  moss,  which  belonged 
to  the  chamois,  and  an  extra  allowance  of  north  wind.' 

Tliis  next  is  scribbled  on  a  tiny  scraj)  of  |)aper  : 

•Glacier  of  Greppond, 
^  Aui/uft  21. 
'  My  dearkst  Father, 

'  I  am  sitting  on  a  gray  stone  in  the  middle  of  the 
glacier,  waiting  till  the  fog  goes  away.  I  believe  I  mat/  wait. 
I  write  this  line  in  my  pocket-book  to  thank  my  mother  for 
hers  which  I  diil  not  ncknowletlge  last  night.  I  am  glad  and 
sorry  that  she  depends  so  much  on  my  letters  for  her  comfort. 
I  am  sending  them  now  every  day  by  the  people  who  go  down, 
for  the  ililigence  is  stopped.  Vou  may  run  the  chance  of 
missing  one  or  two  therefore.  I  am  quite  well,  and  very 
comfortable — sitting  on  Joseph's  knapsjuk  laiti  on  the  stone. 
Ilie  fog  is  about  as  thick  as  that  of  London  in  Ni)vend)er, — 
only  white ;  and  I  see  nothing  near  me  but  fields  of  dampish 
snow  with  black  stones  in  it.' 

And  then : 

'  I  cannot  say  that  on  the  whole  the  aiguilles  have  trcatetl 
Die  well.     I  went  up  Saturday,  Monday  and  Tuesday  to  their 


118        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKI?^ 

feet,  and  never  obtained  audience  until  to-day,  and  then  they 
retired  at  twelve  o'clock;  but  I  have  got  a  most  valuable 
memorandum.' 

Meantime : 

•Geneva, 
'Monday, 

'August  20,  1849. 
'My  dearest  Joito, 

'  I  do  not  know  if  you  have  got  all  my  letters,  fully 
explaining  to  you  in  what  way  the  want  of  a  single  letter,  on 
two  occasions,  did  so  much  mischief — made  such  havoc  in  our 
peace.  I  think  my  last  Thursday's  letter  entered  on  it.  We 
are  grateful  for  many  letters — that  have  come.  It  was  merely 
the  accident  of  the  moment  when  first  by  illness  and  then  by 
precipices  we  were  most  anxious — being  exactly  the  moment 
the  letters  took  it  into  their  heads  to  be  not  forthcoming. 
Not  writing  so  often  would  only  keep  us  more  in  the  dark, 
with  little  less  anxiety.  Please  say  if  you  get  a  letter  every 
day  ;'  and  so  forth. 

Space  can  hardly  be  afforded  for  more  than  samples  of  this 
voluminous  correspondence,  or  interesting  quotations  might 
be  given  about  the  '  ghost-hunt  yesterday  and  a  crystal-hunt 
to-day,'  and  life  at  the  IMontanvert,  until  at  last  (August  28)  : 

*I  have  taken  my  place  in  diligence  for  Thursday,  and 
hope  to  be  with  you  in  good  time.  But  I  quite  feel  as  if  I 
were  leaving  home  to  go  on  a  journev.  I  shall  not  be 
melancholy,  however,  for  I  have  really  had  a  good  spell 
of  it.  .  .  .  Dearest  love  to  my  mother.  I  don't  intend  to 
write  again. 

•Ever,  my  dearest  father, 

'  Your  most  affectionate  son, 

♦J.  RUSKIN.' 


CHAPTER  IV. 

•BTOXES  OF  VENICE.'    (1849-1851.) 

•I  Btrxxl  in  Venice,  on  the  Briilfte  of  Sigha, 
A  palace  nnJ  a  prison  on  eacli  Immi  ; 
I  8JIW  from  out  the  wave  her  striicturca  rise 
Aa  from  lliu  stroke  of  the  encliunter's  wand.' 

ByroV. 
•And  I,  John,  saw  the  holy  city,  New  Jerud.ilem,  coming  down  froio 
GoJ,  out  of  heaven.' — Jiev.  xxi.  2. 

A  HOOK  about  Venice  had  been  planned  in  1845,  during 
Mr.  Kuskin's  lirst  long  working  visit.  He  had  made 
so  many  notes  and  sketches  both  of  architecture  and 
painting  that  the  material  seenieil  rcaily  to  hand  ;  ant)tlier 
visit  would  till  up  the  gaps  in  his  information  ;  and  two  or 
three  months'  hard  writing  would  work  the  subject  off",  and 
»ct  him  free  to  continue  '  Modem  Painters.'  So  before 
leaving  home  in  1849,  he  had  made  up  his  mind  that  the 
next  work  would  he  'The  Stones  of  \cnice,' which,  on  the 
appearance  of  'The  Seven  Liunps,'  was  announced  by  the 
publishers  as  in  preparation. 

Like  '  The  Seven  Ijimps,'  this  new  book  was  not  to  be  a 
manual  of  practical  architecture,  but  the  further  illustration 
of  doctrines  |x;culiar  to  the  author;  the  reaction,  that  is  to 
say,  of  society  upon  art ;  the  close  connection,  in  this  case, 
of  style  in  architecture  with  the  life,  the  religious  tone,  the 
moral  aims,  of  the  |K'<)ple  who  produced  it.  \'enice  was  the 
nearest  analogy  in  the  j)a.st,  among  the  great  influential 
nations  of  hi.>tory,  to    our  own  country.     It  wiis   free,  but 


120        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

aristocratic  and  conservative ;  Christian,  but  independent  of 
Ihe  Pope;  it  pursued  a  course  of  '  spirited  foreign  policy'  in 
contrast  with — but  as  a  consef]uence  of — its  apparently  peace- 
ful function  of  commerce.  So  that,  by  its  exanij)le,  the  lessons 
of  national  virtue  which,  since  ISiS,  the  author  had  felt 
called  upon  to  preach,  could  be  illustrated  and  enforced  in 
a  far  more  interesting  way  than  if  he  had  merely  written  a 
volume  of  essays  on  political  morality.  But  in  the  end  the 
inquiry  branched  out  in  so  many  directions  that  the  main 
purpose  was  all  but  hidden  among  flowers  of  rhetoric  and 
foliage  of  technical  detail,  which  most  readei-s  took  for  the 
sum  and  substance  of  its  teaching. 

He  left  home  again  early  in  October ;  by  the  end  of 
November  he  was  settled  with  his  wife  at  Venice  for  the 
winter.  He  expected  to  find  without  much  trouble  all  the 
information  he  wanted  as  to  the  dates,  styles  and  history  of 
Venetian  buildings  ;  but  after  consulting  and  comparing  all 
the  native  writers,  it  appeared  that  the  questions  he  asked  of 
them  were  just  the  questions  they  were  unprepared  to  answer, 
and  that  he  must  go  into  the  whole  matter  afresh.  So  he 
laid  himself  out  that  winter  for  a  thorough  examination  of 
St.  Mark's  and  the  Ducal  Palace  and  the  other  remains — 
drawing,  and  measuring,  and  comparing  their  details;  only  to 
find  that  the  work  he  had  undertaken  was  like  a  sea  '  chi  seiiipre 
si  fa  maggiore.'  The  old  buildings  were  a  patchwork  of  all 
styles  and  all  periods.  In  St.  Mark's  alone,  every  pinnacle 
called  for  separate  study;  every  capital  and  balustrade,  on 
minute  inquiry,  turned  out  to  have  its  own  inde])en(lcnt 
history.  So  that,  after  all  his  labour,  he  could  give  no  com- 
plete and  generalized  survey  of  the  subject,  chronological  and 
systematic,  without  much  more  time  and  thought.  But  at 
any  rate,  the  details  he  had  in  his  note-books  were  the  result 
of  personal  observation  ;  he  was  no  longer  trusting  to  second- 
hand information  or  the  vague  traditions  of  the  tribe  of 
ciceroni. 

His  father  had  gone  back  to  England  in  September  out  of 
health,  and  the  letters  from  home  did  not  report  improve- 


•STONES  OF  VENICE'  121 

mrnt.  TTis  motlior,  too,  was  licjjinninj!;  to  fc.ir  the  loss  of  lier 
»iulit  ;  ami  lie  coiiM  not  stiiv  nwiiv  iVom  tlieiii  imv  longer.  I:i 
IVbiini  V,  iNoO,  lie  lunkc  of}"  his  work  in  the  niidille  of  it, 
and  rtlmiR-il  to  l.ontlon,  arriving  about  the  niidillc  of  Apiil. 
The  ix'st  of  the  vear  lie  sp:.'nt  in  writin;^  tlic  first  volume  of 
•Stones  of  \'iniee,'anil  in  prepaiin;;  the  illustrations,  toirether 
with  'Kxaniples  of  the  Arihiteiture  of  \enico,'  a  portfolio  of 
lar^e  litho^iaphs  and  engravings  in  mez/otint  and  line,  to 
acc(.'iipan_v  the  work. 

The  illustrations  to  the  new  book  were  a  {jreat  advance 
upon  the  rough  solt-ground  etchings  of  'Seven  I^inips.''  He 
sccurcii  the  services  of  some  of  the  finest  engravere  who 
ever  handled  the  tools  of  their  art.  The  Kngltsh  school  of 
engraving  was  then  in  its  last  and  most  acconiplishcil  period. 
Photography  had  not  yet  begun  to  supei-scde  it,  and  the 
demand  for  delicate  work  in  book-illustration  had  encouraged 
minuteness  and  precision  of  liandling  to  the  livst  degiee.  In 
this  excessive  refinement  there  were  the  symptoms  of  decline; 
but  it  was  most  fortunate  for  Mr.  lluskin  that  his  drawings 
c-ould  be  interpreted  by  such  men  as  Armytage  and  Cousen, 
CulV  and  Le  Kcux,  Hoys  anil  Lupton,  and  not  without 
advantage  to  them  that  their  inasier|)ieces  should  be  jire- 
scrved  in  liis  works,  and  praiscil  as  they  deserved  in  his 
prefaces.  Sometimes,  as  it  often  linppens  when  engravers 
work  for  an  artist  who  sets  the  stanilard  high,  they  found 
Mr.  Huskin  a  liard  taskmaster.  Tlic  mere  fact  of  tlieir  skill 
in  translating  a  sketch  from  a  note-book  into  a  gem-like 
vignette,  encouraged  iiim  to  ask  for  more;  so  that  some  of 
the  subjects  whidi  became  tho  most  elaborate  were  at  first 
comparatively  rough  drawings,  and  were  gradually  worked 
up  from  succ-cssive  retouchings  of  the  proofs  by  the  infinite 
patience  of  both  parties.  In  other  ca-ses  working  drawings 
were  prepared  by  Mr.  lluskin,  as  refined  as  the  plates.  How 
stead v  his  hand  wius,  and  how  trained  his  eye,  can  be  seen  by 
anvone  who  looks  carefully  at  the  etchings  by  him — not 
ii/itr  him— in  'Modern  I'ainters,'  which  show  that  he  waa 
fully  conij)etent  to  have  produced  his  own  illustrations  hod 


122        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

it  been  worth  his  while.  The  photogravure  facsimiles  in 
'  Poems,'  the  '  Poeti-y  of  Architecture,''  and  '  Studies  in  Both 
Arts''  bear  witness  that,  while  in  one  mood  he  does  those 
roughly-sketched  chiaroscuro  studies  like  the  '  Seven  Lamps ' 
illustrations,  at  other  times  he  can  '  curb  the  liberal 
hand '  and  rival  a  cameo  in  refinement.  Like  much  else  of 
his  work,  these  plates  for  '  Stones  of  Venice  ''  were  in  advance 
of  the  times.  The  publisher  thought  them  '  caviare  to  the 
general,''  so  Mr.  J.  J.  Ruskin  told  his  son ;  but  gave  it  as 
his  own  belief  that  'some  dealers  in  Ruskins  and  Turners 
in  1890  will  get  great  prices  for  what  at  present  will  not 
sell.' 

Early  in  1850,  his  father,  at  his  mother''s  desire,  and  with 
the  help  of  Mr.  W.  H.  Harrison,  collected  and  printed  his 
poems,  with  a  number  of  pieces  that  still  remained  in  MS., 
the  author  taking  no  part  in  this  revival  of  bygones,  which, 
for  the  sake  of  their  associations,  he  was  not  anxious  to  re- 
call,—though  his  father  still  believed  that  he  might  have  been 
a  poet,  and  ought  to  have  been  one.  This  is  the  volume  of 
'  Poems,  J.  R.,  1850,''  so  highly  valued  by  collectors. 

Another  resurrection  was  '  The  King  of  the  Golden  River,' 
which  had  lain  hidden  for  the  nine  years  of  the  Ars  Poetica. 
He  allowed  it  to  be  published,  with  woodcuts  by  the  famous 
'  Dicky ''  Doyle.  The  little  book  ran  through  three  editions 
that  year,  and,  partly  because  School  Boards  have  adopted  it 
as  one  of  their  prizes,  it  still  finds  a  steady  sale.  The  first 
issue  must  have  been  torn  to  rags  in  the  nurseries  of  the  last 
gcnei-ation,  since  copies  are  so  rare  as  to  have  brought  ten 
guineas  apiece  instead  of  the  six  shillings  at  which  they  were 
advertised  in  1850. 

A  couple  of  extracts  from  letters  of  1850  will  give  some 
idea  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  impressions  of  London  society  and  the 
Drawing  Room  : 

'  My  dearest  IVIother, 

'  Horrible  party  last  night — stiff— large — dull — fidgety 
—strange, — run-against-everybody-kno  w-nobody  sort  of  party. 


•STONES  OF  VENICE'  123 

Naval  people.  Young  lady  claims  acquaintance  with  mo — I 
know  (Ui  imuh  of  her  as  of  Queen  Poinaro — Talk  :  get  away 

as  soon  as  I  can — ask   who  slie  is — I>aily  ( )  ; — as  wise  as 

I  was  before.  Intioihiced  to  a  black  man  with  chin  in  collar. 
Black  man  condescending — I  abuse  dilleient  things  to  black 
man  :  chiefly  the  House  of  Lords.  HIack  man  says  he  lives  in 
it — asks   wliere  I   live — don't  want  to  tell   liini — obliged — 

go  away  and  ask  who  he  is — ( )  ;  as  wise  as  I  was  before. 

Introduced  to   a   young    lady — young  lady  asks   if  I    like 

di'awing — go  away  and  ask  who  she  is — l^idy  ( ).     Keej) 

away,  with  back  to  wall  anil  look  at  watch.  Get  away  at 
liust.  ^'ery  sulky  this  nioruing — hope  my  father  better — 
dealest  love  to  you  both.' 

*Paek  Street, 
'  4  o'clock 

'  (May,  1850). 

*  My  dfahest  F.xtiier, 

'  ^Ve  got  through  gloriously,  though  at  one  place 
there  was  the  most  awkward  crush  I  ever  saw  in  my  life 
— the  pit  at  the  Surrey,  which  I  never  saw,  may  perhaps  show 
the  like — nothing  else.     The  floor  was  covered  with  the  i-uins 

of  ladies' dresses,  torn  lace  and  fallen  flowere.     But  E was 

luckily  out  of  it,  and  got  through  unscathed — and  heard 
people  saying  "  What  a  beautiful  dress !"  just  as  she  got  up 
to  the  Queen.  It  was  fatiguing  enough  but  not  so  aukiiard 
as  I  expected.  .  .  . 

'  nie  Queen  looked  younger  and  prettier  than  I  expected 
— very  like  her  j)icturcs,  even  like  those  which  are  thought  to 
flatter  most — but  I  only  saw  the  profile — I  could  not  see  the 
front  fiice  as  I  knelt  to  her,  at  least  without  an  uj)turning  of 
tlie  eyes  which  I  thought  would  be  unseemly — and  there 
were  but  some  two  to  thieo  seconds  allowed  for  the  whole 
aEaii 

•  The  Queen  j^ave  her  hand  very  graciously  :  but  looked 
bored  ;  j»v>oi  tliwi^ ,  well  she  might  be,  with  about  a  quailer 
of  a  mile  square  of  |)eople  to  bow  to. 

'  I  met  two  peo})le  whom  I  have  not  seen  for  many  a  day. 


124        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Kildare  and  Scott  Murray— had  a  chat  with  the  former  and 
a  woi-d  with  Murray,  but  nothing  of  interest. 
'  Dearest  love  to  my  mother. 

'  Ever,  my  dearest  father,'  etc. 

As  one  of  the  chief  literary  figures  of  the  day,  Mr.  Rnskin 
could  not  avoid  society,  and,  as  he  tells  in  '  Prneterita,'  he  was 
rewarded  for  the  reluctant  jierformance  of  hi*  duties  by  meet- 
ing with  several  who  became  his  lifelong  friends.  L'lucf 
among  these  he  mentions  Mr.  and  ]Mrs.  Cowper-Temple, 
afterwards  Lord  and  Lady  Mount  Temple.  The  acquaint- 
ance with  Samuel  Rogers,  inauspiciously  begun  many  years 
before,  now  ripened  into  something  like  friendship  ;  IMonckton 
Milnes  (Lord  Houghton)  and  other  men  of  letters  were  met 
at  Rogers'  breakfasts.  A  little  later  a  visit  to  the  Master  of 
Trinity,  Wheweli,  at  Cambridge,  brought  him  into  contact 
with  Professor  Willis,  the  authority  on  Gothic  architecture, 
and  other  notabilities  of  the  sister  University.  There  also  he 
met  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Marshall  of  Leeds  (and  Coniston) ;  and  he 
pursued  his  journey  to  Lincoln,  with  Mr.  Simpson,  whom  he 
had  met  at  Lady  Davy's,  and  to  Fai-nley  for  a  visit  to 
]Mr.  F.  H.  Fawkes,  the  owner  of  the  celebrated  collection  of 
Turners  (April,  1831). 

In  London  he  was  acquainted  with  many  of  the  leading 
artists  and  persons  interested  in  art.  Of  the  'teachei-s'  of 
the  day  he  was  known  to  men  so  diverse  as  Carlyle — and 
Maurice,  with  whom  he  corresponded  in  1851  about  his 
'Notes  on  Sheepfolds' — and  C.  H.  S]iurgeon,  to  whom  his 
mother  was  devoted.  He  was  as  yet  neither  a  hermit,  nor  a 
heietic  :  but  mixed  freely  with  all  sorts  and  conditions,  with 
one  exception,  for  PiiSLyites  and  Romanists  were  yet  as 
heathen  men  and  publicans  to  him ;  and  he  noted  with 
interest,  while  writing  his  review  of  Venetian  history,  tliat 
the  strength  of  Venice  was  distinctly  Anti-Papal,  and  her 
virtues  Christian  but  not  Roman.  Reflections,  on  this 
subject  were  to  have  formed  part  of  his  great  work,  but  the 
fii'st  volume  was  taken  up  with  the  a  priori  development  of 


•STONES  OF  VENICE'  125 

arcliitccturnl  forms ;  and  the  treatment  in  especial  of  Venetian 
iiiattirs  iiad  to  be  iiultdiiitely  j)ost|)one<l,  until  another  visit 
had  given  iiini  tlic  oj)|)ortuiiity  of  withering  his  material. 

Meanwiiile,  liis  witle  svnijmthies  had  turned  his  mind 
toward  a  subject  whicli  then  had  received  little  attention, 
thoi:gh  since  then  loudly  discussed — the  reunion  of  (Protes- 
tant) C'lni.stians. 

He  put  to-cther  his  thoughts  in  a  pamphlet  on  the  text 
•There  shall  be  one  fold  and  one  Shipheixl,'  calling  it,  in 
allusion  to  his  architectural  stuilics,  'Notes  on  the  Construc- 
tion of  Sheepfolils.'  He  proposed  a  ci)nipromise,  trving  to 
prove  that  the  pretensions  to  priesthood  on  the  high  Anglican 
side,  anil  the  objections  to  e|)iscopacy  on  the  I'rcsbvterian, 
were  alike  untenable;  and  hoped  that,  when  once  these  differ- 
ences— such  little  things  he  thought  them — were  arranged,  a 
unitctl  Church  of  England  might  become  the  nucleus  of  a 
world-wide  federation  of  Protestants,  a  civitas  Dei,  a  New 
Jerusiilem. 

There  were  many  who  agreed  with  his  aspirations ;  he 
received  shoals  of  letters  from  syni])athizing  readers,  most  of 
them  praising  his  aims  and  criticising  his  means.  Others 
objecte<l  nither  to  his  manner  than  to  his  matter;  the  title 
siivouix-d  of  levity,  and  an  art-critic  writing  on  theology  was 
suppose<l  to  he  wandering  out  of  his  jirovince.  Tradition  savs 
that  the  '  Notes'  were  fre'cly  bought  by  Uorder  farmers  under 
a  rather  laughable  mistake ;  but  surely  it  was  no  new  thing 
for  a  Scotch  reader  to  tind  a  religious  tract  under  a  catching 
title;  and  their  two  shillings  might  have  been  woi-se  s|)ent. 
There  were  a  few  replies;  one  by  Mr.  Dyce,  the  clerical  11. A., 
who  dcfcniicd  the  Anglican  view  with  mild  pensiHage  and  the 
u.snal  conunonphues.  And  there  the  matter  ended,  for  the 
public.  Tor  Mr.  Riiskin,  it  was  the  beginning  of  a  train  of 
thought  which  led  him  far.  He  gradually  learnt  that  his 
error  was  not  in  iu>king  too  nuuh,  l-:t  in  asking  too  little. 
He  wislieil  for  a  union  of  I'roti  stiuit.s,  forgetting  the  sheep 
that  are  not  of  tliiit  fold,  and  little  dreaming  of  the  answer  h* 
yot.  after  miuiy  days,  in  '  Christ's  I'olk  in  the  Aj.ennine.' 


126        LIFE  AND  AVORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Meanwhile  the  first  volume  of  'Stones  of  Venice''  had 
appeared.  Its  reception  was  indirectly  described  in  a 
panijihlct  entitled  '  Something  on  Ruskinisni,  with  a  "  Vesti- 
bule" in  Rhyme,  by  an  Architect' — a  Puginist,  it  seems, 
who  felt  thiit  his  craft  was  in  danger.  He  complains  bitterly 
of  the  '  ecstasies  of  rapture '  into  which  the  newspapers  had 
been  thrown  by  the  new  work : 

'  Your  book — since  reviewers  so  swear— may  be  rational, 
Still,  'tis  certainly  not  eitlier  loyal  or  national ;' 

for  it  did  not  join  in  the  chorus  of  congratulation  to  Pnnce 
Albert  and  the  British  public  on  the  Great  Exhibition  of 
1851,  the  apotheosis  of  trade  and  machinery.  The  '  Archi- 
tect'finds  also — what  may  surprise  the  modern  reader  who 
has  not  noticed  that  many  an  able  writer  has  been  thought 
unreadable  on  his  first  appearance — that  he  cannot  under- 
stand ]\lr.  Ruskin's  language  and  ideas  : 

•  Yonr  style  is  so  soaring — and  some  it  makes  sore — 
Tliat  plain  folks  can't  make  out  your  strange  mystical  lore.' 

He  will  allow  the  author  to  be  quite  right,  when  he  finds 
something  to  agi'ee  upon  ;  but  the  moment  a  sore  jioint  is 
touched,  then  Ruskin  is  '  insane.'  In  one  respect  the  '  Archi- 
tect '  hit  the  nail  on  the  head :  '  Readers  who  are  not 
reviewers  by  profession  can  hardly  fail  to  perceive  that 
Ruskinisni  is  violently  inimical  to  sundnj  cxht'mg  interests.'' 

The  best  men,  we  said,  were  the  first  to  recognise  Mr. 
Ruskin's  genius.  Let  us  throw  into-  the  opposite  scale  an 
opinion  of  more  weight  than  the  '  Architect's,'  in  a  transcript 
of  the  original  letter  from  Carlyle. 

•Chelsfa, 

'  March  9,  1851. 
'  Deau  RfsicrM, 

'  I  did  not  know  yesterday  till  your  servant  was  gone 
that  there  was  any  note  in  the  parcel ;  nor  at  all  what  a  feat 
you  had  done!  A  loan  of  the  gallant  young  man's  Memoirs 
was  what  1  expected ;  and  here,  in  the  most  chivalrous  style, 
tomes  a  gift  of  them.     This,  I  think,  must  be  in  the  style 


•STONES  OF  VENICE'  127 

prior  to  the  Renjiissance !  A\Tiat  can  I  do  but  accept  your 
kimliicss  witli  pleasure  niul  jjmtitude,  tliouj;h  it  is  far  beyond 
my  deserts  ?  Perlmps  the  next  num  I  meet  will  use  uie  as 
nuieh  below  them  ;  and  so  bring  matters  striiif^ht  agiiin  ! 
Truly  I  am  nmch  obliged,  and  return  you  many  hearty 
thanks. 

'  I  was  already  deep  in  the  '  Stones ' ;  and  clearly  purpose 
to  holil  on  there.  A  strange,  unexpected,  and  I  believe,  most 
true  and  excellent  Sirmon  in  Stones — a-s  well  as  the  best 
piece  of  sciiool mastering  in  Architectonics  ;  from  which  I 
hope  to  learn  in  a  great  many  ways.  Tiie  spirit  and  purport 
of  these  critical  studies  of  yours  are  a  singular  sign  of  the 
times  to  me,  ami  a  very  gratifying  one.  llight  good  speed 
to  you,  and  victorious  arrival  on  the  farther  shore !  It  is  a 
quite  new  "Renaissance,"  I  believe,  we  are  getting  into  just 
now  :  either  towaixls  new,  iciJcr  manhood,  high  again  as  the 
eternal  stars ;  or  else  into  final  death,  and  the  mask  of 
Gehenna  for  evermore  !  A  dreadful  process,  but  a  needful 
and  inevitable  one  ;  nor  do  I  doubt  at  all  which  way  the 
issue  will  be,  though  which  of  the  extant  nations  are  to  get 
included  in  it,  and  which  is  to  be  trampled  out  and  abolished 
in  the  process,  may  be  very  doubtful.  God  is  great :  and 
sure  enough,  the  changes  in  the  "  Construction  of  Sheepfolds  " 
OS  well  as  in  other  things,  will  re<]uire  to  be  very  considerable. 

'  We  are  still  labouring  under  the  foul  kind  of  influenza 
here,  I  not  far  from  emancipated,  mv  poor  wife  still  deep  in 
the  business,  though  I  hope  past  the  deepest.  Am  I  to 
untlei-stand  that  you  too  are  seized  ?  In  a  day  or  two  I  hope 
to  ascertain  that  you  are  well  again.  Adieu  ;  here  is  an 
interruption,  here  also  is  the  end  of  the  paper. 

'  With  many  thanks  and  regards.' 

[Signature  cut  away.] 

Charlotte  Dronte  wrote  to  one  of  her  friends :  '  The 
"Stones  of  Xenice"  seem  nobly  laid  and  chiselled.  How 
Knuully    the   »iuaiTy*    of    vast    marbles    is    disclosed  I      Mr. 

•  Ad  allusioD  to  the  title  of  tlie  first  chapter. 


128        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Ruskin  seems  to  me  one  of  the  few  genuine  wTiters,  as 
distinguished  from  book-mal<ers,  of  this  age.  His  earnest- 
ness even  amuses  me  in  certain  passages,  for  I  cannot  help 
laughing  to  think  how  utilitarians  will  fume  and  fret  over 
his  deep,  serious  and  (as  they  will  think)  fanatical  reverence 
for  Art.' 

But  INIr.  Ruskin  himself  would  hardly  share  Charlotte 
Bronte's  contempt  for  the  utilitarians.  A  short  while  ago 
one  of  her  own  people,  a  Yorkshire  working  man  not  far 
from  Haworth,  got  up  in  a  public  discussion,  and  said  tliat 
he  had  once  talked  with  Mr.  Ruskin,  and  tried  to  say  how 
much  he  had  enjoyed  his  works.  'And  he  said  to  me,  "I 
don't  care  whether  you  enjoyed  them ;  did  they  do  you  any 
good  7" ' 

As  soon  as  the  first  volume  of  '  Stones  of  Venice  '  and  the 
'Notes  on  the  Construction  of  Sheepfolds '  were  published, 
Mr.  Ruskin  took  a  short  Easter  holiday  at  INIatlock,  and  set 
to  work  at  a  new  edition  of  'Modern  Painters.'  This  was 
the  fifth  reprint  of  the  first  volume,  and  the  third  of  vol.  ii. 
They  were  carefully  and  conscientiously  revised  ;  some  passages 
of  rough,  youthful  criticism  were  cancelled,  and  wisely ;  for 
more  lasting  good  is  done  by  expounding  what  is  noble  than 
by  satirizing  what  is  base.  The  work  was  left  in  its  final 
foi-ni,  except  for  notes  added  in  later  years ;  and  the  Post- 
script indulges,  most  justifiably,  in  a  little  triumph  at  the 
changed  tone  of  public  criticism  upon  Turner. 

But  it  was  too  late  to  have  been  mucii  service  to  the  great 
artist  himself  In  1845 — after  saying  good-bye  and  '  \V'hy 
Xi-ill  you  go  to  Switzerland  ?  there  will  be  such  a  fulge  about 
you  when  you're  gone ' — Turner  was  attacked  by  some  form 
of  paralysis  or  mental  decay,  and  was  never  himself  again. 
The  last  drawings  he  did  for  Mr.  Ruskin  (January,  1848),  the 
'  Briinig '  and  the  '  Descent  from  the  St.  Gothard  to  Airolo,' 
showed  his  condition  unmistakably  ;  and  the  lonely  restlessness 
of  the  last,  disappointing  years  were,  for  all  his  friends,  a 
melancholy  ending  to  a  brilliant  career.     Mr.  Ruskin  wrote : 

'■This  year  (1851)  he  has  no  picture  on  the  walls  of  the 


•STONES  OF  VENICE'  129 

Acrtflrniy;  and  the   Times  of  May  3  says:  "We  miss  tho^  • 

works  of   INSl'IllATION'  !" 

'  H't  miss!  Wlio  misses?  The  populnce  of  England  ro'V 
by  to  wt'iuy  itself  in  tlie  great  bazaar  of  Keiisington,*  little 
tliiiiking  that  a  clay  will  come  when  those  veiled  vestals  and 
praming  amairons,  and  goodly  nieicha)u!ise  of  precious  stones 
and  gold,  will  all  be  forgotten  as  tliougii  they  iiad  not  been  ; 
but  tliat  the  liglit  which  has  fadcil  from  the  walls  of  tl>e 
Academy  is  one  which  a  million  Koh-i-noors  could  not  re 
kindle ;  and  that  the  year  1851  will,  in  the  far  future,  be 
reinend)creil  less  for  what  it  has  displayed,  than  for  what  it 
has  withdrawn.' 

Too  truly  prophesied  ;  for  Turner  was  in  his  last  illness, 
hiding  like  a  wild  animal  wounded  to  death.  On  Decem- 
ber 11),  in  the  evening,  the  sunset  shone  upon  his  dishonoured 
corpse  through  the  chamber  window  in  Chelsea.  Just  so  it 
.shone  upon  another  death -bed,  for  the  sainted  maid  of 
Florence,  prefigiuing,  they  said,  the  auieole. 

'The  Sun  is  God,  my  dear,'  Turner  had  told  his  house- 
keeper. Was  there  no  'healing  in  his  wings'  for  the  fallen 
hero?  or  was  that  reserved  only  for  the  spotless  soul  of  Ida.? 
Were  there  still  other  sheep .'  stones  which  the  builders  of 
iheepfolds  rejected,  all  maimer  of  precious  stones? 

•  The  Great  Eiliibitioa  in  E-jde  Park. 


CHAPTER  V. 

PRE-RAPHAELITISM.    (1851-1853.) 

*  Don't  go  yet !  Are  you  aware  that  tliere  will  be  a  torch-race  this 
evening  on  horseback,  to  the  glory  of  Artemis  ? 

'  That  is  entirely  new  to  me,  said  Socrates.  And  do  you  mean  that 
they  will  really  have  torches,  and  p:is3  them  from  rider  to  rider  in  the 
race  V — Plato,  liepublic,  328. 

THE  Times,  in  May  1851,  inis.sed  'those  works  of  in- 
spiration,'' as  Ruskin  had  at  last  taught  people  to  call 
Turner's  pictures.  But  the  acknowledged  mouthpiece 
of  public  o])inion  found  consolation  in  castigating  a  school  of 
voung  aitists  who  had  '  unfortunately  become  notorious  by 
addicting  themselves  to  an  antiquated  style  and  an  affected 
sinijilicity  in  painting.  .  .  .  We  can  extend  no  toleration  to 
a  mere  servile  imitation  of  the  cramped  style,  fiilse  perspective, 
and  crude  colour  of  remote  antiquity.  We  want  not  to  see 
what  Fusel i  termed  drapery  "snapped  instead  of  folded'"; 
faces  bloated  into  apoplexy,  or  extenuated  into  skeletons; 
colour  borrowed  from  the  jars  in  a  druggist's  shop,  and  ex- 
pression forced  into  caricature.  .  .  .  That  morbid  infatuation 
wliich  sacrifices  truth,  beauty,  and  genuine  feeling  to  mere 
eccentricity  deserves  no  quarter  at  the  hand  of  the  public.'' 

jMr.  Rusldn  knew  nothing  personally  of  these  young  inno- 
vators, and  had  not  at  first  sight  wliolly  apjjroved  of  the 
apparently  Puseyite  tendency  of  Rossetti's  '  Ecce  Ancilla 
Domini,''  ^Vliilais'  '  Cai-}5enter''s  Shop,''  and  Ilolman  Ilunfs 
'  l^ariy  Christian  Missionary,''  exhibited  the  year  before.  All 
tlicse  months  he  had  been  closely  kept  to  his  'Sheepfolds' 


PRE-RAPHAELITISM  181 

and  '  Stones  of  Venice' ;  but  now  he  was  conccting  the  proofs 
of  '  Moiltrn  I'ainters,'  vol.  i.,  as  thus : 

'  Cliaptcr  tlie  liust,  section  21  :  The  duhj  and  after  privilcfi-cs 
of  nil  xtudints.  .  .  .  Go  to  Niiture  in  ail  singleness  of  heiirt, 
anil  walk  with  her  laboriously  and  trustinfily,  ha\in<;  no  other 
thou'ihts  but  how  best  to  penetrate  her  meaning,  anil  re- 
nieniher  her  instruction  ;  rejecting  nothing,  selecting  nothing, 
anil  scorning  nothing;  believing  all  things  to  be  right  and 
good,  and  rejoicing  always  in  the  truth.' 

He  went  to  the  Academy  to  look  at  the  false  perspective 
and  snapped  draperies,  the  infatuated  untruth  and  eccentric 
ugliness.  Yes;  the  faces  were  ugly  :  Miliais' '  Mariana'  was  a 
piece  of  idolatrous  Papistry,  and  there  wiis  a  mistake  in  the 
pei-spcctive.  Collins'  'Convent  Thoughts' — more  Popery; 
but  very  careful, — 'the  tadpole  too  sm;dl  for  its  age';  but 
what  studies  of  plants!  And  tiiere  w;vs  his  own  '  Alisma 
Plantago,'  which  he  had  been  drawing  for  'Stones  of  Venice' 
(vol.  i.,  jilate  7)  and  describing  :  '  The  lines  through  its  body, 
which  are  of  peculiar  beauty,  mark  the  did'erent  expansions 
of  its  fibres,  and  are,  I  think,  exactly  the  same  as  those  which 
would  be  traced  by  tiie  currents  of  a  river  entering  a  lake  of 
the  shape  of  the  leaf,  at  the  end  where  the  stalk  is,  and  pa.ss- 
ing  out  at  its  point.'  Curvature  was  one  of  the  special 
subjects  of  Mr.  Uiiskin,  the  one  he  found  most  neglected  by 
ordinary  artists.  The  'Alisma'  was  a  test  of  observation  and 
dniughtsmanship.  He  had  never  seen  it  so  thoroughly  or  so 
well  drawn,  and  heartily  wished  the  study  were  his. 

Looking  again  at  the  other  works  of  the  school,  he  found 
that  the  one  mistake  in  the  '  Mariana '  was  the  only  error  in 
perspective  in  the  whole  series  of  pictures;  which  could  not 
be  .said  of  any  twelve  works,  containing  architecture,  by 
popular  artists  in  the  exhibition  ;  and  that,  as  studies  both 
of  dni|)cry  and  of  every  other  minor  detail,  there  had  been 
nothing  in  art  so  earnest  or  so  complete  as  these  pictures 
«nce  the  days  of  Albert  Diirer. 

lie  went  home,  and  wrote  his  venhct  in  a  letter  to  the 
Tlinis.  After  subsetjuent  examination  of  Hunt's  'Two 
9-2 


132        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Gentlemen  of  Verona,'  and  Millais'  'Return  of  the  Dove' 
lie  wrote  again,  pointing  out  beauties,  and  indications  of 
power  in  conce})tion,  and  observation  of  Nature,  and  liandiing, 
where  at  iirst  he,  like  the  rest  of  the  public,  had  been  re- 
j)elleil  by  the  wilful  ugliness  of  the  faces.  Meanwhile  the 
i're-Raphaelites  wrote  to  tell  him  that  they  were  neither 
I'ajiists  nor  Puseyites.  The  day  after  his  second  letter  was 
published  he  received  an  ill-spelt  missive,  anonymously 
abusing  tliem.  This  was  the  sort  of  thing  to  interest  his 
love  of  poetical  justice.  He  made  the  aciiuaintance  of 
several  of  the  Rrethi-en.  'Charley'  Collins,  as  his  friends 
affectionately  called  him,  was  the  son  of  a  respected  R.A., 
and  the  brother  of  Wilkie  Collins;  himself  afterwards  the 
author  of  a  delightful  book  of  travel  in  France,  'A  Cruise 
upon  Wheels.'  IVir.  Millais  turned  out  to  be  the  most 
gifted,  charming  and  handsome  of  young  artists.  Mr. 
Holman  Hunt  was  already  a  Ruskin-reader,  and  a  seeker 
after  truth,  serious  and  earnest  in  his  religious  natui-e  as  in 
his  painting. 

The  I're-Raphaelites  were  not,  originally,  Mr.  Ruskin's 
pupils,  nor  was  their  movement,  directly,  of  his  creation. 
But  it  was  the  outcome  of  a  general  tendency  which  he,  more 
than  any  man,  had  helped  to  set  in  motion  ;  and  it  was  the 
fulfilment,  though  in  a  way  he  had  not  expected,  of  his 
wishes.  His  advice  to  go  to  Nature,  selecting  nothing, 
rejecting  nothing  and  scorning  nothing,  had  been  offered  to 
landscape  students,  and  it  had  involved  the  acceptance  of 
Turner  as  their  great  exemplar  and  ultimate  stanilard.  It 
was  beginning  to  be  accepted  by  many,  but  wi  h  timidity 
and  modifications;  and,  to  indulge  for  a  moment  in  the 
'  im'ght  have  been,'  if  the  Pre-Rai)haclite  revolution  had  not 
h:i|)pL'ned,  a  school  of  modern  landscape,  naturalistic  on  tb.e 
one  hand,  idealistic  and  poetical  on  the  other,  would  pi-obably 
have  developed  con.stitiilionaUij,  so  to  speak ;  with  Mr.  Ruskin 
a.s  its  pro])het  anil  Turner  as  its  forerunner, — a  school  which 
woukl  have  been  as  truly  national  as  the  great  school  of 
portraiture  had  been,  and  as  representative  in  one  direction 


PllE-RAPHAELITISM  133 

)f  the  spirit  of  the  age,  as  the  sixteenth-century  Venetians  in 
iu'ir  own  time. 

Hut  history  does  not  hehave  so  reasonably.  There  arc 
nore  wiieels  in  tiie  niaihine  than  we  can  count,  *  cycle  on 
■picyclc,'  not  to  liint  at  conietary  orbits  uni<nown  to  the 
ilnianac.  The  naturalistic  movement,  which  hail  cngaj^ed 
Hr.  l{usi<in's  whole  attention  at  his  start,  was  only  one  side 
if  tlic  nation's  life.  The  other  side  was  reactionary,  leailinj; 
o  Tiactarianism  in  some,  in  others  to  historical  research,  to 
ioliiic  revivals  in  architecture  ami  paintiiijj  antl  poetry ;  in 
ill  cases  betrayiii!^  itself  in  the  harkinij  back  to  by^jones. 
ather  than  in  progressive  motlernism.  The  lower  class  of 
ninils  took  one  siile  or  the  other,  and  became  merely  ra'.lical 
ind  materialist,  or  Puscyite  and  romantic,  as  their  sympathies 
ed  them.  But  the  problem,  to  a  thinker,  was  to  mediate 
)etween  these  opjiDsin^  tendencies ;  to  find  the  hii;'her  term 
hat  embraced  them  both ;  to  unite  the  two  aims  without 
'omprtimisc. 

So  Mr.  Uuskin,  who  bc^an  as  a  naturalist,  was  met  first 
ty  ancient  Christian  art,  and  spent  his  early  manhood  in 
lissolving  the  antithesis  between  modern  English  landscape- 
tudy,  anil  the  standpoint  of  Angelico.  No  sooner  had  he 
uccetxletl  than  a  new  element  appeared — an  element  of  life, 
a  he  perceived,  and  therefore  necessary  to  accept — but  at 
irst  sight  ineconcilablc  with  his  arrangement  of  the  world, 
io  he  brought  it  into  his  scheme,  bit  by  bit :  fii-st  the 
laturalism  of  the  Pi-e-llaphaelites ;  later  on,  their  treatment 
if  imaginative  subjects. 

His  attraction  to  Pre-Raphacliti.sni  was  none  the  less  real 
lecause  it  was  sudden,  and  brought  about  partly  by  the 
lerxonal  influence  of  his  new  allies.  And  in  re-armnging  his 
irl-theory  to  take  them  in,  he  had  before  his  mind  rather 
irhat  he  hoped  they  would  become  than  what  they  were, 
r'or  a  time,  his  influence  over  them  was  grej\t ;  their  (iret 
hree  years  were  their  own  ;  their  next  three  yeai-s  were  prac- 
ically  )iis;  and  some  of  them,  the  weaker  brethren,  leant 
ipon  him  until  they  lost  the  command  of  their  own  powers. 


134        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

No  artist  can  afford  to  use  another  man's  eyes;  still  less, 
anotiier  man's  brain  and  heart.  Mr.  Ruskin,  great  as  an 
exponent,  \vas  in  no  sense  a  master  of  artists ;  and  if  he 
cheered  on  the  men  who,  he  believed,  were  the  best  of  the 
time,  it  did  not  follow  that  he  should  be  saddled  with  the 
resjionsibility  of  directing  them. 

The  famous  pamjihlet  on  '  Prc-Raphaelitism '  of  Au^^tist 
1851  showed  that  the  same  motives  of  Sincerity  impelleii 
both  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Brethren  and  Turner,  and  in  a 
degree,  men  so  different  as  Prout,  old  Hunt,  and  Lewis.  All 
these  were  opposed  to  the  Academical  School  who  worked  by 
rule  of  thumb ;  and  they  diffei-ed  among  one  another  only  in 
differences  of  physical  power  and  moral  aim.  Which  was  all 
perfectly  true,  and  much  truer  than  the  cheap  criticism  which 
could  not  see  beyond  superficial  differences,  or  the  fossil 
theories  of  the  old  school,  defended  in  the  pamphlet  war  by 
men  like  Rippingille.*  But  Prc-Raphaelitism  was  an  un- 
stable compound,  liable  to  explode  upon  the  experimenter, 
and  its  component  parts  to  return  to  their  old  antithesis  of 
cniile  naturalism  on  the  one  hand,  and  affectation  of  piety  or 
poetry  or  antiquarianism,  on  the  other.  And  that  their  new 
champion  did  not  then  foresee.  All  he  knew  was  that,  just 
when  he  was  sadly  leaving  the  scene,  Turner  gone  and  night 
coming  on,  new  lights  arose.  It  was  really  far  more  note- 
worthy that  INIillais  and  Rossetti  and  Hunt  were  men  of 
genius,  than  that  the  'principles'  they  tried  to  illustrate 
were  sound.  ]Mi-.  Ruskin,  always  safe  in  his  intuitions, 
divined  their  power,  and  generously  applauded  the  dexterou,; 
troop  in  their  unexpected  Lampadephoria. 

Indirectly  he  found  his  reward.  For  like  Socrates  in  the 
dialogue,  by  joining  in  the  festival  he  found  youths  to 
discourse  with,  and  with  them  gradually  evolved  his  ov  ii 
Republic,  the  ideal  of  life  which  is  his  real  contribution  to 
human  progress.  '  What  gvod  have  his  writings  done  us  ?' 
Hitherto  they  have  been  for  our  enjoyment;  or,  like  the 
Seven  Lamps,'  vague  outcries ;  or,  like  the  '  Sheejjfolds,' 
•  To  whose  paper  Mr.  Buskin  had  formerly  contributed. 


PRE-RAPILVELITISM  135 

tentative  idoals.  In  the  later  volumes  of  'Stones  of  \'cnice' 
we  linil  (listinit  aims  pieli^urcil. 

Inunc'diateiy  alter  (inisliing  the  pamphlet  on  '  I're- 
Raphaclitism,'  lie  left  for  the  Continent  with  his  wife  antl 
friends,  the  Uev.  and  Mi's.  Daniel  Moore;  spent  a  fortni^^ht 
in  his  heloved  Savoy  with  the  Pritcliards ;  and  then  crossed 
Ihe  Alps  with  Mr.  Newton.  On  the  first  of  Septemhor  he 
ivas  at  Wniee,  for  a  (inul  spell  of  labour  on  the  palaecs 
jnd  churihos. 

He  settled  at  the  Casa  Wetzlar,  Campo  Sta.  Maria 
Zobenigo,  and  one  of  his  (iret  visitors  was  Dean  Mihnan. 
'I  am  amused  at  your  mode  of  ciceronizing  the  Dean  of 
5t.  raul's,"  wrote  his  father,  who  kept  up  the  usual  close 
:orrcspondence,  and  made  himself  useful  in  looking;  up 
books  of  reference  and  consuitin";  authorities  like  Mr.  James 
Ferjjusson, — for  these  chaptci-s  of. easy  eloquence  were  not 
written  without  a  world  of  pains.  The  engravers  and  the 
business  tiepartment  of  the  new  publications  al.so  recjuired  his 
»-operation,  for  they  were  now  becoming  large  ventures. 
During  the  three  and  a  half  years  j)rcceding  the  sunmicr  of 
18-31  Mr.  Uuskin  seems  to  have  spent  .i'1,680  of  j)rofits  from 
liis  books,  making  by  his  writings  at  this  period  only  about 
i  third  of  his  annual  outlay ;  so  that  the  estimated  cost  of 
these  great  illustrated  volumes,  .some  l'l,f200,  was  a  matter 
jf  anxiety  to  his  father,  who,  together  with  the  publi.sher, 
leprecated  large  plates  and  technical  tietails,  and  expressed 
iome  impatience  to  see  results  from  this  visit  to  N'enice.  He 
looked  eagerly  for  every  new  chapter  or  drawing  as  it  was 
sent  home  for  criticism.  Some  passiigcs,  .such  as  the  descrip- 
tion of  tiie  C'alle  San  Moise  ('  Stones  of  Xenice,"  H.  iv.)  were 
unfavourably  receivwl  by  him.  Another  time  he  sjiys,  '  You 
tiave  a  very  great  didiculty  now  in  writing  any  more,  which 
is  to  write  up  to  yourself:'  or  again, — 'Smith  reports  slow 
sale  of  "Stones  of  Venice''  (vol.  I.)  and  "  IVe-llaphaelitism." 
n»e  times  are  sorely  against  you.  The  Exhibition  has  im- 
poverished the  country,  and  literature  of  a  saleable  character 
leems  cliiefly  contined  to  shilling  books  in  gi-een  paper,  to  h» 


136        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

had  at  railway-stations.  Smith  will  have  an  account  against 
lis.'  He  always  sent  adverse  jircss-notices,  on  the  priucipl 
that  it  was  good  for  John :  and  every  little  discotu-agement 
or  annovance  was  discussed  in  full. 

The  most  serious  news,  threatening  complete  interruption 
of  the  work  rapidly  progressing  in  spite  of  all,  was  of 
Turner's  death  (December  19,  1851).  Old  Mr.  Ruskin  heard 
of  it  on  the  21st,  a  '  diouial  day '  to  him,  spent  in  sad  con- 
templation of  the  pictures  his  son  had  taught  him  to  love. 
Soon  it  came  out  that  John  Ruskin  was  one  of  the  executors 
named  in  the  will,  with  a  legacy  of  £20  for  a  mourn- 
ing ring: — 'Nobody  can  say  you  were  paid  to  praise,' 
says  his  father.  It  was  gossipped  that  he  was  expected  to 
write  Turner's  biography, — '  five  years'  work  for  you,'  says 
the  old  man,  full  of  plans  for  gathering  material.  Rut  when 
one  scandal  after  another  reached  his  eai^s,  he  changed  his 
tone,  and  suggested  dropping  personal  details,  and  giving  a 
'  Life  of  his  Art '  in  the  intended  third  and  final  volume  of 
'  Modern  rainters.'  Something  of  the  sort  was  done  in  the 
Edinburgh  Lectures  and  at  the  close  of  vol.  v.  of  '  ]Modem 
Painters':  and  the  ollicial  life  was  left  to  Walter  Thornbury, 
with  which  iNIr.  Ruskin  perhaps  did  not  wish  to  interfere. 
Rut  he  collected  a  mass  of  still  unpublished  material  about 
Turner,  which  goes  far  to  prove  that  the  kindly  view  he  took 
of  the  strange  man's  morbid  and  unha]ipy  life  was  not  with- 
out justification.  At  the  time,  so  many  legal  complications 
dcvelojied  that  ^Ir.  Ruskin  was  advised  to  resign  his  executor- 
ship ;  later  on  he  was  able  to  fulfil  its  duties  as  he  conceived 
them,  in  arranging  Turner's  sketches  for  the  National  Gallery. 

Others  of  his  old  artist-friends  were  now  passing  awav. 
Early  in  January  I^Ir.  J.  J.  Ruskin  called  on  "William  Hunt 
and  found  him  feeble:  'I  like  the  little  Elshie,'  he  says, 
nicknaming  him  after  the  Rlack  Dwarf,  for  Hunt  was  some- 
what deformed  :  '  he  is  softened  and  humanized.  There  is  a 
gentleness  and  a  greater  bonhomie — less  reserve.  I  had  sent 
him  "rre-Raphaelitism.'"  He  had  niai-ked  it  very  much  with 
pencil.     He  greatly  likes  your  notice  of  people  not  keeping 


PRE-RAPHAELITISM  187 

o  tlieir  last.  So  many  clever  artists,  he  says,  have  been 
iiincd  by  not  acting  on  your  principles.  I  not  a  piece  of 
ulvice  from  Hunt, — never  to  commission  a  picture.  lie 
•ould  not  have  done  my  pigeon  so  well  had  he  felt  he  was 
loing  it  for  anvhody.'  The  pigeon  was  a  drawing  he  had 
ust  bought ;  in  later  years  at  Ihantwood. 

In  February  1852  a  dinner-party  was  given  to  celebrate 
n  his  absence  John  Ruskin's  thirty -third  birtlulay.  •On 
Monday,  9lli,  we  had  Oldfield,  (Newton  was  in  Wales,) 
ilaiTison,  George  Richmond,  Tom,  Dr.  Giant,  and  Samuel 
['rout.  The  latter  I  never  saw  in  such  spirits,  and  he  went 
iway  much  satisfied.  Yesterday  at  church  we  were  told  that 
le  came  home  very  happy,  ascended  to  his  painting- room, 
md  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  from  his  leaving  our  cheerful 
louse  was  a  corpse,  from  apoplexy.  He  never  spoke  after 
;he  fit  came  on.     He  had  always  wished  for  a  sudden  death.' 

Next  year,  in  November  1853,  he  tells  of  a  visit  paid,  by 
Fohn's  request,  to  W.  H.  Deverell,  the  young  Pre-Raphaelite, 
vhom  he  found  '  in  squalor  and  sickness — with  his  IJible  open 
—anil  not  long  to  live — while  Howard  abuses  his  picture  at 
Jvcrpool.' 

Early  in  1852  Charles  Newton  was  going  to  Greece  on  a 
•oyage  of  discovery,  and  wantetl  John  Ruskin  to  go  with 
lim.  Rut  the  parents  would  not  hear  of  his  adventuring 
liniself  at  sea  'in  those  engine- vessels.'  'Steam  is  infernal,' 
aid  the  father  of  John  Ruskin.  '  Better  have  shijjs  only 
irith  sails,  machinery  only  with  water-force,  and  carriages 
nth  hoi-ses.  We  went  more  slowly  —  so  much  the  better; 
khat  do  we  hurry  for.'  ^Ve  neither  gain  more,  nor  enjoy 
nore.  ^Ve  are  neither  richer  nor  happier.  The  country, 
xccpt  to  those  who  live  in  it, — and  to  tho.se,  all  of  it  except 
heir  own  neighbourhood,  is  for  ever  lost.  \Ve  see  nothing 
if  it;  we  do  not  even  breathe  pure  air.  Steam  and  hydrogen 
re  the  odoure  of  travellers  from  the  engines,  and  we  carry 
moke  with  us  to  obscure  the  landscape.'  So  Newtou  went 
lone,  and  'dug  u])  loails  of  Plicrnician  anti(|uities.' 

One  cannot   help   regretting    that   Mr.   Ruskin    lost    tlii» 


138        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

opportunity  of  familiarizing  himself  with  the  early  Greek  art 
which,  twenty  years  later,  he  tried  to  expound.  For  the  time 
he  was  well  enough  employed  on  the  '  Stones  of  Venice.''  He 
tells  the  story  of  his  ten  months'  stay  in  a  letter  to  his 
venerable  friend  Rogers  the  poet,  dated  June  23  (1852). 

'I  was  out  of  health  and  out  of  heart  when  I  first  got 
here.  There  came  much  painful  news  from  home,  and  then 
such  a  determined  course  of  bad  weathei-,  and  every  other 
kind  of  annoyance,  that  I  never  was  in  a  teniper  fit  to  write 
to  anyone :  the  worst  of  it  was  that  I  lost  all  JlcTing  of 
Venice,  and  this  was  the  reason  both  of  my  not  writing  to 
you  and  of  my  thinking  of  you  so  often.  For  whenever  I 
found  myself  getting  utterly  hard  and  indifferent,  I  used  to 
read  over  a  little  bit  of  the  "  Venice  "  in  the  "  Italy,"  and  it 
put  me  always  into  the  right  tone  of  thought  again,  and  for 
this  I  cannot  be  enough  grateful  to  you.  For  though  I 
believe  that  in  the  summer,  when  Venice  is  indeed  lovelv, 
when  pomegranate  blossoms  hang  over  every  garden-wall,  ami 
green  sunlight  shoots  through  every  wave,  custom  will  not 
destroy,  or  even  weaken,  the  impression  conveyed  at  first ;  it 
is  far  otherwise  in  the  length  and  bitterness  of  the  \'enetian 
winters.  Fighting  with  frosty  winds  at  every  turn  of  the 
canals  takes  away  all  the  old  feeling  of  peace  and  stillness  ; 
the  protracted  cold  makes  the  dash  of  the  water  on  the  walls 
a  sound  of  simple  discomfort,  and  some  wild  and  dark  day 
in  February  one  starts  to  find  oneself  actually  balancing  in 
ones  mind  the  relative  advantages  of  land  and  water  carriage, 
comparing  the  Canal  with  Piccadilly,  and  even  hesitating 
whether  for  the  rest  of  one's  life  one  would  rather  have  a 
gondola  within  call  or  a  hansom.  When  I  used  to  get  into 
this  humour  I  akcays  had  recourse  to  those  lines  of  yours  : — 
•  "  Tlie  se:i  is  iu  the  broad,  the  narrow  streets, 
Ebbing  and  flowing,"  etc. ; 

and  they  did  nie  good  service  for  many  a  day ;  but  at  last  a 
time  came  when  the  sea  was  not  in  the  narrow  streets,  and 
was  always  ebbing  and  not  flowing ;  and  one  day,  when  I 
found  just  a  foot  and  a  half  of  muddy  water  left  under  the 
Bridge  of  Sighs,  and  ran  aground  in  the  Grand  Canal  as  I 


PRE-RAPHAELITISM  189 

was  going  home,  I  was  obligeil  to  give  the  canals  up.  I  have 
never  i-ecovered  the  I'eeliiig  ot"  tiiciii/ 

He  then  goes  on  to  hmient  tiie  tiway  of  Venice,  the  idle- 
ness and  dissipation  of  the  po|)ii!aie,  tiie  lottiiv  ganibliiig; 
and  to  forebode  tiie  '  destruction  of  olil  buiiilinj^s  and  erection 
of  new  '  changing  the  place  '  into  a  niotlern  town — a  bad 
imitation  of  Paris.'  Bettei-  than  that  he  thinks  woulil  be 
utter  neglect ;  St.  Mark's  Place  would  again  be,  what  it  was 
in  the  early  ages,  a  green  fielil,  and  tiie  front  of  the  Ducal 
I'alace  and  the  marble  shafts  of  St.  Mark's  would  be  rooted 
in  wild  violets  and  wreathed  with  vines.  'She  will  be 
beautiful  again  then,  and  I  could  almost  wish  that  the  time 
might  come  ([uickiy,  were  it  not  that  so  many  noble  pictures 
must  be  destroyed  fii-st.  ...  I  love  \enetian  pictures  more 
ami  more,  anil  wonder  at  them  every  day  with  greater 
wonder;  compared  with  all  other  paintings  they  are  so  easy, 
so  instinctive,  so  natural;  everything  that  the  men  of  other 
schools  did  by  rule  and  called  composition,  done  here  by 
instinct  and  only  calleil  truth. 

'I  ilon't  know  when  I  have  envied  anybody  more  than  I 
did  the  other  day  the  directoi-s  and  clerks  of  the  Zccca. 
There  they  sit  at  inky  deal  desks,  counting  out  rolls  of 
money,  and  curiously  weighing  the  irregular  and  battered 
coinage  of  which  \'eiiicc  boasts;  and  just  over  their  heads, 
occupying  the  place  which  in  a  London  counting-hou.se  would 
be  occupied  by  a  commercial  almanack,  a  glorious  IJonifazio 
— 'Solomon  and  the  yueen  of  Sheba';  and  in  a  less  honour- 
able corner  three  old  diiectoi-s  of  the  Zecca,  very  mercantile- 
looking  men  indeed,  counting  money  also,  like  the  living 
ones,  only  a  little  Jiiorc  living,  painted  byTintoret;  not  to 
Bjieak  of  the  scattered  Palma  \  ecchio.s,  and  a  lovely  Iknetletto 
Diana  which  no  one  ever  looks  at.  I  wonder  when  the 
EurojK-an  mini!  will  again  awake  to  the  great  fact  that  a 
noble  j)icture  was  not  j)aintcd  to  be  hiiiiff,  but  to  be  seen? 
I  only  saw  these  by  accident,  having  been  detained  in  Venice 
by  some  obli<;ing  person  who  abstracted  some  [of  his  wife's 
jewels  I  ami  brou;;lit  me  thereby  into  various  relations  with 
Ihe  respectable  bmly  of  peojde  who  live  at  tlic  wrong  end  oJ 


140        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

the  Bridge  of  Sighs — the  police,  whom,  in  spite  of  traditions 
of  ten-or,  I  would  very  willingly  have  changed  for  some  of 
those  their  prcdecessoi-s  whom  you  have  honoured  by  a  note 
in  the  "Italy."  The  present  police  appear  to  act  on  exactly 
contrary  principles  ;  yours  found  the  jiurse  and  banished  tliL' 
loser ,  these  doiit  find  the  jewels,  and  won't  let  nie  go  away. 
I  am  afraid  no  punishment  is  appointed  in  Venetian  law  lur 
people  who  steal  time.'' 

Mr.  Iluskin  returned  to  England  in  July  1852,  and 
settled  next  tloor  to  his  old  home  on  Heme  Hill.  He  said 
he  could  not  live  any  more  in  Park  Street,  with  a  dead  brick 
wall  opjjosite  his  windows.  And  so,  under  the  roof  where  he 
wrote  the  first  volume  of  '  Modern  Painters,'  he  finished 
'  Stones  of  Venice.'  These  later  volumes  give  an  account  of 
St.  Mark's  and  the  Ducal  Palace  and  other  ancient  buildings  ; 
a  complete  catalogue  of  Tintoret's  pictures, — the  list  he  had 
begun  in  184.5  ;  and  a  history  of  the  successive  styles  of 
architecture,  Bvzantine,  Gothic,  and  Renaissance,  inter- 
weaving illustrations  of  the  human  life  and  character  that 
made  the  art  what  it  was. 

The  kernel  of  the  work  was  the  chapter  on  the  Nature  of 
Gothic ;  in  which  he  showed,  more  distinctly  than  in  the 
'Seven  Lamps,'  and  connected  with  a  wider  range  of  thougli", 
suggested  by  Pre-Uaphaelitism,  the  great  doctrine  that  art 
cannot  be  produced  except  by  artists ;  that  ?irchitecture,  in 
so  far  as  it  is  an  art,  does  not  mean  mechanical  execution.  In 
unintelligent  workmen,  from  the  vapid  working-drawings  of 
an  architect's  office  ;  and,  just  as  Socrates  postponed  the  dav 
of  justice  until  philosophers  should  be  kings  and  kings 
philosophers,  so  Ruskin  postponed  the  reign  of  art  until 
workmen  should  be  artists,  and  artists  workmen. 

It  was  no  idle  dream.  The  day  dawned  early  when  that 
chapter  '  on  the  Nature  of  Gothic'  was  taken  as  the  manifesto 
of  Maurice  and  Kingsley's  Working  Men's  College :  and 
surely  the  sun  had  risen,  when  the  same  words  were  chosen 
for  his  loving  adornment  by  our  great  art-craftsman,  William 
Morria. 


CIIAFTER  VI. 

THE  EDINBURGH  LECTURES.    (1853,  1854.) 

'Let  liira  go  up  into  the  public  chair; 
We'll  hear  him.' 

Julius  Ccesar, 

BY  the  end  of  July  1853  'Stones  of  V'enice'  was  finished, 
as  well  as  a  description  of  Giotto's  works  at  Padua, 
written  for  the  Arundel  Soeioty.  The  social  duties  of 
he  season  were  over;  and  jMr.  Kuskin  took  a  cottage  in 
llenliidas,  where  to  spend  a  well-earned  holiday,  lie 
iivited  Mr.  IVlillais,  by  this  time  an  intimate  and  heartily- 
dniired  friend,*  to  go  down  into  Scotland  with  him  for  the 
nnmer's  rest, — such  rest  as  two  men  of  energy  a«id  talent 
ike,  in  the  change  of  scene  without  giving  up  the  hahit  of 
ork.  Mr.  Uuskin  devoted  himself  first  to  foreground 
:udies,  and  made  careful  drawings  of  rock-detail  ;  and 
len,  being  asked  to  give  a  course  of  lectures  before  the 
liilosophical  Society  of  Edinburgh,  he  was  soon  busy  writing 
nee  more,  and  ])reparing  the  cartot)n-sketches,  'diagrams' 
i  he  calls  them,  to  illustrate  his  subjects.  Dr.  Acland  had 
)ined  the  party  ;  and  one  day,  in  the  ravine,  it  is  said  that 
e  asked  Millais  to  sketch  their  host  as  he  stood  contempla- 
vely  on  the  rocks,  with  the  torrent  thundering  beside  him. 
he  sketch  was  produced  at  a  sitting;  and,  with  additional 

•  '  What  a  beauty  of  a  man  he  is  !'  wrote  old  Mr.  Ruskin,  'and  high 
into'.ltct.  .  .  .  Millais'  sketches  are  "prodigious"!  Mill.iis  is  tho 
iiiiter  of  the  age.'  '  Capable,  it  seems  to  me,  of  almost  everything,  if  his 
e  and  streuglb  be  spared,'  said  the  youi>{;er  Uuskia  to  Mias  Mitford. 


142        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

work  in  the  following  winter,  became  the  well-known  portrait 
now  at  Oxford,  in  the  possession  of  Sir  Henry  Acland,  much 
the  best  likeness  of  this  early  period. 

Another  portrait  was  painted — in  words — ^by  one  of  his 
audience  at  Edinburgh  on  November  1,  when  he  gave  the 
opening  lecture  of  his  course,  his  first  appearance  on  the 
platform.  The  account  is  extracted  from  the  Edinburgh 
Guardian  oi'Sosemhev  19,  1853: 

'  Before  you  can  see  the  lecturer,  however,  you  must  get 
into  the  hall,  and  that  is  not  an  easy  matter,  for,  long  before 
the  doors  are  opened,  the  fortunate  holders  of  season  tickets 
begin  to  assemble,  so  that  the  crowd  not  only  fills  the 
passage,  but  occupies  the  pavement  in  front  of  the  entrance 
and  overflows  into  the  road.  At  length  the  doors  open,  and 
you  are  carried  through  the  passage  into  the  hall,  where  you 
take  up,  of  course,  the  best  available  position  for  seeing  and 
hearing.  .  .  .  After  waiting  a  weary  time  .  .  .  the  door  by 
the  side  of  the  platform  opens,  and  a  thin  gentleman  with 
light  hair,  a  stiff  white  cravat,  dark  overcoat  with  velvet 
collar,  walking,  too,  with  a  slight  stoop,  goes  up  to  the  desk, 
and  looking  round  with  a  self-possessed  and  somewhat  formal 
air,  proceeds  to  take  off  his  great-coat,  revealing  thereby,  in 
addition  to  the  orthodox  white  cravat,  the  most  orthodox  of 
white  waistcoats.  ...  "  Dark  hair,  pale  face,  and  mas.--i\e 
marble  brow — that  is  my  ideal  of  j\Ir.  Ruskin,"  said  a  young 
lady  near  us.  This  proved  to  be  quite  a  fancy  portrait,  a^ 
unlike  the  reality  as  could  well  be  imagined.  INIr.  Ru>ki)i 
has  light  sand-coloui-ed  hair ;  his  face'is  more  red  than  pale  ; 
the  mouth  well  cut,  with  a  good  deal  of  decision  in  its  curve, 
though  somewhat  wanting  in  sustained  dignity  and  strength ; 
an  aquiline  nose ;  his  forehead  by  no  means  broad  or 
massive,  but  the  brows  full  and  well  bound  together  ;  the 
eye  we  could  not  see,  in  consequence  of  the  shadows  that 
fell  upon  his  countenance  from  the  lights  overhead,  but 
we  are  siu-e  that  the  poetry  and  passion  we  looked  for 
almost  in  vain  in  other  features  must  be  concentrated  there.* 

*  '  Mary  Russell  Mitford  found  him  as  a  young  man  "  very  eloquent 
wd  distinguished-looking,  Ull,  fair,  and  slender,  with  a  gentle  plaj- 


Tim  EDINBUllGH  LECTURES  143 

Vftcr  sitting  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  glnncinn;  round  at 
he  slici'ts  oi>  the  wall  as  lie  takes  oft'  his  gloves,  he  rises,  and 
eaniiig  shghtiy  over  the  desk,  with  liis  hands  foltled  across, 
legiiis  at  once, — "  You  aie  proud  of  your  good  city  ot 
Cdiiduirgh,"  etc. 

'  And  now  for  the  style  of  the  lecture.  Properly  speaking, 
here  were  two  styles  essentially  distinct,  and  not  well  blended, 
-a  speaking  and  a  writing  style  ;  the  former  colloquial  and 
pokeu  off-hand  ;  the  latter  rhetorical  and  carefully  read  in 
juite  a  diflei-ent  voice, — we  had  almost  said  intoned.  .  .  . 
lis  elocution  is  pecidiar;  he  has  a  ilitficulty  in  souniling  the 
etter  "r";  and  there  is  a  peculiar  tone  in  the  rising  and 
ftlling  of  his  voice  at  measured  intervals,  in  a  way  scarcely 
ver  hearil,  except  in  the  public  lection  of  the  service 
ippointcil  to  be  read  in  churches.  These  are  the  two  things 
tith  which,  perha|)s,  you  are  most  surprised, — his  dress  and 
nanner  of  speaking — both  of  which  (the  white  waistcoat 
lotwithstanding)  aie  eminently  clerical.  You  naturally  ex- 
»ect,  in  one  so  independent,  a  manner  free  from  conventional 
estraint,  ami  an  utterance,  whatever  may  be  the  power  of 
■oice,  at  least  expressive  of  a  strong  individuality  ;  and  you 
ind  instead  a  Christ  Church  man  of  ten  yeai-s'  standing,  who 
las  not  yet  taken  ordei-s ;  his  dress  and  manner  derived 
rom  his  college  tutor,  and  his  elocution  from  the  chapel- 
«ader.' 

The  lectures  were  a  summing  up,  in  popul.ir  form,  of  the 
:hief  topics  of  Mr.  lltiskin's  thought  during  the  last  two 
rears.  The  (ii>t  stated,  with  more  decision  and  warmth 
Jian  part  of  his  audience  approved,  his  plea  for  the  Gothic 

ulneKt,  and  a  sort  of  pretty  waywardness  that  was  quite  charming." 
Sydney  Dobell,  again,  iu  18.')2,  discovered  an  earnestness  pervading 
svery  feature,  giving  power  to  a  face  that  otherwise  would  be  merely 
ovable  for  its  gentleness.  And,  finally,  one  who  visited  him  at 
Denmark  Ilill  chai-acterizvd  him  as  euiotion.il  and  nervous,  with  a  soft, 
;enial  eye,  a  mouth  "  thin  and  severe,"  and  a  voice  that,  though  rich 
ind  sweet,  yet  had  a  tendency  to  sink  into  a  plaintive  and  hopeless  tone, 
rhis  is  interesting  enough,  of  course,  but  after  all  the  man  is  in  hia 
bouLi,  not  iu  his  yenoa.'—Lilnaiy  World,  May  19,  1893. 


144        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Revival,  for  the  use  of  Golliic  as  a  domestic  style.  He  tried 
to  show  by  the  analogy  of  natural  forms  that  the  Gothic 
arch  and  gable  were  in  themselves  more  beautiful,  and  more 
logical  in  consti-uction,  than  the  horizontal  lintel  and  low 
pediment  of  the  ordinary  Renaissance-Classic  then  in  vogue 
The  next  lecture,  given  three  days  later,  went  on  to  contrast 
the  wealth  of  ornament  in  mediaeval  buildings  with  the  poor 
survivals  of  conventionalized  patterns  which  did  duty  for 
decoration  in  nineteenth-century  '  Greek '  architecture  ;  and 
he  raised  a  laugh  by  comparing  a  typical  stonemason's  lion 
with  a  real  tigei-'s  head,  drawn  in  the  Edinburgh  zoological 
gardens  by  i\Ir.  Rlillais.  He  showed  how  a  giadual 
Gothicizing  of  the  common  dwelling-house  was  possible,  by 
introducing  a  porch  here  and  an  oriel  window  there,  piece  by 
piece,  as  indeed  had  been  done  in  Venice.  And  he  pointed 
out  that  this  kind  of  work  would  give  opportunities  for  freer 
and  more  artistic  workmanship  ;  it  would  be  an  education  in 
itself,  and  raise  the  builder's  ruan  rruni  a  mere  mechanical 
di'udge  into  an  intelligent  and  intei-estcxl  Ci-aftsman. 

The  last  two  lectures,  on  November  15  and  IS,  were  on 
Painting  ;  briefly  reviewing  the  history  of  i<indscape  and  the 
life  and  aims  of  Turner;  and  finally,  Christian  art  and 
Sincerity  in  imagination,  which  was  now  put  forth  as  the 
guiding  principle  of  Pre-Raphaelitism. 

Public  opinion  was  violently  divided  over  these  lectures; 
and  they  were  the  cause  of  much  trouble  at  home.  The  fa-ct 
of  his  lecturing  at  all  aroused  strong  opposition  from  his 
friends  and  remonstrances  from  his  .parents.  Before  the 
event  his  mother  wrote:  'I  cannot  reconcile  myself  to  the 
thought  of  your  bringing  yourself  personally  before  the  world 
till  you  are  somewhat  older  and  stronger.'  Afterwards,  his 
father,  while  apologizing  for  the  word  '  degrading,'  is  dis- 
gusted at  his  exposing  himself  to  such  an  interruption  as 
occuned,  and  to  newspaper  conunents  and  personal  references. 
The  notion  of  an  'itinerant  lecturer'  scandalizes  him.  He 
hears  from  Harrison  and  Bolding  that  John  is  to  lecture 
even  at  their  very  doors — in  Camberwell.     'I  see  small  bills 


THE  EDLNBURGH  LECTURES  145 

p,'   he   writes,    '  with   the   lecturers'   names ;    amon^   them 

Ir.  who  gets  your  old   clothes  !'     And   he   bids  him 

■rite  to  the  coiiiiiiittee  that  his  parents  object  to  his  ful- 
lling  the  engagement.  He  postponed  his  lecture — for  ten 
ears  ;*  but  accepted  the  Presidency  of  the  Camberwell 
nstitute,  which  enabled  him  to  appear  at  their  meetings 
without  offence  to  any. 

The  printed  Edinburgh  lectures  were  fiercely  assailed  by 
he  old  school ;  but  little  damage  was  done,  except  to  their 
wn  cause,  by  writers  who  held,  with  the  Athcna-iim  of  that 
ate,  that  the  Middle  Ages  were  characterized  by  canni- 
lalism  and  obscenity ;  and  that  Dante  seldom  drew  an 
tnage  from  nature ;  who,  in  the  act  of  defending  Greek  art 
gainst  Ruskin  the  Goth,  had  never  heard  of  the  important 
tele  of  Aristion,  known  as  '  The  Soldier  of  Marathon ' ; 
'ho,  a-s  judges  of  modem  art,  found  that  '  water-colour 
lainting  can  scarcely  satisfy  the  mind  craving  for  huniaii 
ction  and  human  passion';  and  objected  to  the  jiainting  of 
ontemporary  history  because  '  we  have  had  enough  of  por- 
raits,  and  as  for  modern  battles,  they  are  mere  affairs  of 
moke  and  feathers.' 

While  staying  at  Edinburgh,  Mr.  Ruskin  met  the  various 
elebrities  of  modem  Athens,  some  of  them  at  the  table  of 
lis  former  fellow-traveller  in  Venice,  Mrs.  Jameson.  One 
ifelong  friendship  was  begun  during  this  time,  with  Ur. 
ohn  Hrown,  the  author  of  '  Rab  and  his  Friends '  and  '  Pet 
.larjorie,'  who  met  Mr.  Ruskin  at  Sir  Walter  Trevclyan's, 
ear  Otterbum,  and  corresponded  till  his  death  in  1882,  on 
erms  of  the  greatest  atlection. 

The  next  May  (ISSi)  the  Pre-Raphaelites  again  needed 
lis  defence.  Mr.  Holman  Hunt  exhibited  the  '  Light  of 
he  ^V'orld '  and  the  '  Awakening  Conscience,'  two  pictures 
khose  intention  was  misunderstood  by  the  public,  though  as 
criou.s,  as  sincere,  as  the  religious  paintings  of  the  Campo 
!anto  of  Pi'ia.  Mr.  Ruskin  maile  them  the  theme  of  two 
nore    letlci-s   to   the    Times ;   mentioning,  by  tlie  way,  the 

♦  See  Book  III.,  chapter  tv 
10 


146        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

•spurious  imitations  of  Pre-Raphaelite  worli'  which  were 
already  becoming  common.  And  on  starting  for  his  summer 
tour  on  the  Continent,  he  left  a  new  pamphlet  for  publication 
on  the  opening  of  the  Crystal  Palace.  There  had  been  much 
rejoicing  over  the  'new  style  of  architecture'  in  glass  and 
iron,  and  its  purpose  as  a  palace  of  art.  Mr.  Ruskin  who 
had  declined,  in  the  last  chapter  of  the  '  Seven  Lamps,'  to 
join  in  the  cry  for  a  new  style,  was  not  at  all  ready  to  accept 
this  as  any  real  artistic  advance ;  and  took  the  opportunity 
to  plead  again  for  the  great  buildings  of  the  past,  which 
were  being  destroyed  or  neglected,  while  the  British  public 
was  glorifying  its  gigantic  greenhouse.  The  pam)ihlet  prac- 
tically suggested  the  establishment  of  the  Society  for  the 
preservation  of  ancient  buildings,  which  has  since  come  into 
operation. 

This  summer  of  1854  he  projected  a  study  of  Swiss  history : 
to  tell  the  tale  of  six  chief  towns — Geneva,  Fribourg,  Basle, 
Thun,  Baden  and  Schafl'hausen,  to  which  in  1858  he  added 
RheinfcUlen  and  Bellinzona.  He  intended  to  illustrate  the 
work  with  pictures  of  the  places  described.  He  began  with 
his  drawing  of  Thun,  a  large  bird's-eye  view  of  the  town 
with  its  river  and  bridges,  roofs  and  towers,  all  exquisitely 
defined  with  the  pen,  and  broadly  coloured  in  fluctuating 
tints  that  seem  to  melt  always  into  the  same  aerial  blue; 
the  blue,  high  up  the  picture,  beyond  the  plain,  deepening 
into  distant  mountains.  Suppose  a  Whistler  etching  and  a 
Whistler  colour-sketch  combined  upon  one  paper,  and  you 
form  an  iilea  of  the  style  of  this  series  ;  except  that  Mr. 
Ruskin's  work,  being  calculated  for  book-illustration,  and 
not  for  decoration,  can  only  be  seen  in  the  hand,  and  totally 
loses  its  effect  by  hanging — especially  by  exhibition  hanging. 
But  the  delicate  detail  and  studied  use  of  the  line  are  there, 
together  with  a  calculated  unity  of  effect  and  balance  of 
colour  which  had  not  yet  begun  to  degenerate  into  a 
mannered  purple. 

But  his  father  wanted  to  see  '  Modern  Painters'  completed  ; 
and  so  he  began  his  third  volume  at  Vevey,  with  the  dis- 


THE  EDINUUIIGII  LECTURES  U7 

russion  of  the  grand  style,  in  whicli  he  at  hist  broke  loose 
from  Ueynolils,  as  wiis  inevitable,  after  bis  study  of  Pre- 
J{ii|)haebtisni,  and  all  the  varied  experiences  of  the  last  ten 
yeai-s.  The  lesson  of  the  Tidse  Hill  iv\;  had  been  brought 
home  to  him  in  many  ways  :  he  had  fouiul  it  to  be  more  and 
more  true  that  Nature  is,  after  all,  the  criterion  of  art,  and 
that  the  greatest  painters  were  always  those  whose  aim,  so 
far  lus  they  were  conscious  of  an  aim,  was  to  take  fact  for 
their  starting-point.  Iilealism,  beauty,  imagination,  and  the 
rest,  though  necessary  to  art,  could  not,  he  felt,  be  made  the 
object  of  study ;  they  were  the  gift  of  heredity,  of  circum- 
stances, of  national  aspirations  and  virtues ;  not  to  be 
produced  by  the  best  of  rules,  or  achieved  by  the  best  of 
intentions. 

^^'llat  his  own  view  of  his  own  work,  was  can  be  gathered 
from  a  litter  to  an  Eilinburgh  student,  written  on  August  6, 
IS.jl:  'I  am  sure  I  never  said  anything  to  dissuade  you  from 
trying  to  excel  or  to  do  great  things.  I  only  wanted  you 
to  l)c  sure  that  your  efi'orts  were  made  with  a  substantial 
basis,  so  that  just  in  the  moment  of  push  your  footing  might 
not  give  way  beneath  you  ;  anil  also  I  wanted  you  to  feel 
that  long  and  steady  effort  made  in  a  contented  way  does 
more  than  violent  ellort  made  from  some  strong  motive  and 
under  some  enthusiastic  impul.se.  And  I  repeat — for  of  this 
I  am  lurfectly  sure — that  the  best  things  are  only  to  be  done 
in  this  way.  It  is  verv  diflicnlt  thoroughly  to  understand 
the  dillerence  between  indolence  anil  R-serve  of  strength, 
iK-twcen  apathy  and  severity,  between  palsy  and  patience; 
but  there  is  all  the  difference  in  the  world;  and  nearly  as 
many  men  are  ruined  by  inconsiderate  exertions  as  by  idleness 
itself.  To  do  as  much  as  you  can  heartily  and  happily  do 
each  day  in  a  well-determined  direction,  with  a  view  to  far- 
off"  results,  with  present  enjoyment  of  one's  work,  is  the  only 
proper,  the  only  essentially  profitable  way.' 

This  habit  of  great  inihistrv  not  onlv  enabled  Mr.  Ruskin 
to  get  through  a  vast  amount  of  work,  but  it  helped  him 
over  times  of  trouble,  of  which  his  readers  anil  acquaintances, 
10— '2 


U8        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

for  the  most  part,  had  little  idea.  To  them  he  appeared  as 
one  of  those  deities  of  Epicurus,  sipping  his  nectar  and 
hurling  his  thunderbolts,  or,  when  it  pleased  him,  showering 
the  sunshine  of  his  eloquence  upon  delighted  crowds.  He 
had  wealth  and  fame,  the  society  of  wit  and  genius  ;  the 
delight  of  travel  and  intense  appreciation  of  all  tlie  pleasures 
that  travelling  afforded.  The  fancy  of  the  outside  public 
pictured  him  in  the  possession  of  rare  works  of  art,  of 
admiring  friends,  of  a  beautiful  wife.  They  did  not  know 
how  the  labour  involved  in  his  work  and  the  drawback  of 
constant  ill  -  health  made  society  distasteful  to  him  and 
domestic  life  difficult.  They  did  not  see  the  disappointment 
and  disillusioning  of  a  young  girl  who  found  herself  married 
to  a  man  with  whom  she  had  nothing  in  common  ;  in  habits 
of  thought  and  life,  even  more  than  in  years,  her  senior; 
taking  '  small  notice,  or  austerely,'  of  the  gayer  world  she 
preferred,  'his  mind  half-burieil  in  some  weightier  argument, 
or  fancy-borne  perhaps  upon  the  rise  and  long  rolT  of  his 
periods.  And  his  readers  and  the  public  were  intensely 
puzzled  when  she  left  him  with  apparent  sudilenness,  and 
the  separation  ended  in  the  annulment  of  the  meurriage. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

THE  WORKING  MENS  COLLEGE.    (1854-1855.) 

'  Sighiug,  I  turned  at  last  to  win 
Ouoe  more  the  Loudon  dirt  aud  din.' 

KOSSETTI. 

PHILANTHROPIC  instincts,  and  a  growing  sense  of  the 
necessity  for  social  reform,  liatl  led  Mr.  lluskin  for  some 
vears  past  towards  a  group  of  liberal  thinkers  with 
whom  he  had  little  otherwise  in  common.  At  \'enice,  in 
18j^*,  he  hail  written  several  articles  on  education,  taxation, 
and  so  forth,  with  which  he  intended  to  plunge  into  active 
politics.  His  father,  like  a  cautious  man  of  business  who 
knew  his  son's  powers  and  thought  he  knew  their  limitations, 
was  strongly  opposetl  to  this  attempt,  and  used  every  argu- 
ment against  it.  He  appealed  to  his  son's  sensitiveness,  and 
assured  him  that  he  would  be  '  Hayed '  unless  he  wrapped 
himself  in  the  hide  of  a  rhinoceros.  He  assured  hiui  that, 
without  being  on  the  spot  to  follow  the  discussions  of  poli- 
ticians, it  was  useless  to  offer  them  any  opinions  whatsoever. 
And  he  ended  by  declaring  that  it  would  be  the  ruin  of  his 
business  and  of  his  peace  of  mind  if  the  name  of  lluskin 
were  mixed  up  with  lladical  electioneering  :  not  that  he  was 
unwilling  to  surter  martyrdom  for  a  ca-.ise  in  which  he  believed, 
but  he  did  not  believe  in  the  movements  afoot, — neither  the 
Tailors'  Coiiperative  Society,  in  which  their  friend  Mr.  F.  J. 
l-'urnivall  was  interested,  nor  in  any  outcome  of  Chartism  or 
Chartist  principles.  And  so  for  a  time  the  matter  dropped. 
In  1854,  the  Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice  founded  the  Working 


150        LIFE  AND  AVORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Men's  College.  IVIr.  Furnivall  (as  he  states  in  a  letter  to  IMr, 
T.  J.  Wise,  printed  in  'Letters  to  William  Ward,'  IbO-J) 
sent  the  circulars  to  John  Ruskin  ;  who  thereupon  wrote  to 
Maurice,*  and  offered  his  services.  At  the  opening  lecture 
on  October  30,  1854,  at  St.  IMartin's  Hall,  Longacre,  Mr. 
Furnivall  distributed  to  all  comers  a  reprint  of  the  chapter 
'  On  the  Nature  of  Gothic,'  which  we  have  already  noticed  as 
a  statement  of  the  conclusions  drawn  from  the  study  of  art 
respecting  the  conditions  under  which  the  life  of  the  work- 
man should  be  regulated.  Mr.  Ruskin  thus  appeared  as 
contributing,  so  to  say,  the  manifesto  of  the  movement. 

He  took  charge  from  the  commencement  of  the  drawing- 
classes, — first  at  31  Red  Lion  Square,  and  afterwards  at  Great 
Ormond  Street ;  also  superintending  classes  taught  by  Messrs. 
Jeffery  and  E.  Cooke  at  the  AVorking  Women's  (afterwai-ds 
the  W^orking  ]\Ien  and  Women's)  College,  Queen  Square. 

In  this  labour  he  had  two  allies ;  one  a  friend  of  Maurice's, 
Mr.  Lowes  Dickinson,  the  well-kno>vn  artist,  whose  portrait 
of  Maurice  was  mentioned  with  honour  in  the  '  Notes  on  the 
Academy ' ;  his  portrait  of  Kingsley  hangs  in  the  hall  of  the 
novelist-professor's  college  at  Cambridge.  The  other  helper 
was  a  new  friend  of  Mr.  Ruskin's. 

To  people  who  know  him  only  as  the  elegant  theorist  of 
art,  sentimental  and  egotistic,  as  they  will  have  it,  there  must 
be  something  strange,  almost  irreconcilable,  in  his  devotion, 
week  after  week  and  year  after  year,  to  these  night-classes. 
Still  more  must  it  astonish  them  to  find  the  mystic  author  of 
the  '  Blessed  Damozel,'  the  passionate  painter  of  the  '  Venus 
X'erticordia,'  working  by  Ruskin's  side  in  this  rough  navvy- 
labour  of  philanthropy. 

It  was  early  in  185-1  that  a  drawing  of  D.  G.  Rossetti  was 
sent  to  Mr.  Ruskin  by  a  friend  of  the  painter's.  The  critic 
already  knew  ]\Iillais  and  Hunt  pei-sonally,  but  not  Rossetti. 
He  had  scarcely  noticed  his  works,  as  they  were  not  exhibited 
lit  the  Academy.  Mr.  Ruskin  was  just  bringing  out  the 
Edinburgh  Lectures  in  book  form,  and  busy  with  the  defence 
*With  whom  he  had  corresponded  in  1851.    See  p.  124. 


THE  WOUKING  MEN'S  COLLEGE  151 

>f  the  Pre-Rapliaelites.  He  wrote  kinilly,  signing  liiinsolf 
yours  respectfully,'  which  iimused  the  youuj^  piiiiiter.  lie 
iiacie  iu-<|U!iiiitancc,  and  iu  the  appoiulix  to  his  book  plated 
[lossetti's  name  with  those  of  IVIillais  and  Hunt,  especially 
jraisinjj  their  iniajjinative  power,  as  rivalling  that  of  the 
jreatcst  of  the  old  masters. 

He  did  more  than  this.  He  ajjreed  to  buy,  up  to  a  certain 
ium  every  vejir,  any  drawinjjs  that  Ilossetti  broui;;ht  him,  at 
:hcir  market  price;  and  his  standard  of  money -value  for 
works  of  art  has  never  bt>en  nififjardly.  This  sort  of  help, 
:he  encouraj;ement  to  work,  is  exactly  what  makes  progress 
90s.sil)le  to  a  vouiig  and  independent  artist ;  it  is  better  for 
lim  than  fortuitous  exhibition  triumphs — much  better  than 
the  hack-work  which  many  have  to  undertake,  to  eke  out 
their  livelihood.  And  the  mere  fact  of  being  bought  by  the 
eminent  art-critic  was  enough  to  encourage  other  patrons. 

'  He  seems  in  a  mood  to  make  my  fortune,'  said  Ilossetti 
in  the  spring  of  185 i  ;  and  early  in  18.).5  Mr.  Uu-ikin  wrote  : — 
It  seems  to  me  that,  of  all  the  ])aintei-s  I  know,  you  on  tlie 
whole  liavc  the  greatest  genius;  and  you  appear  to  me  also 
to  be— as  far  as  I  can  make  out — a  very  good  sort  of  person. 
[  see  that  you  are  unhappy,  and  that  you  can't  bring  out 
jTour  genius  jis  you  should.  It  seems  to  me  then  the  proper 
md  masxiiri/  thing,  if  I  can,  to  make  you  more  happy  ;  and 
that  I  shall  be  more  really  useful  in  enabling  you  to  paint 
properly,  and  keep  your  room  in  order,  than  in  any  other  way.' 

He  did  his  best  to  keep  that  room  in  order  in  every  sense. 
Anxious  to  promote  the  painter's  marriage  with  MissSiddal — 
'Princess  Ida,' as  Mr.  lluskin  called  her, — he  od'ered  a  similar 
urangement  to  that  which  he  had  made  with  Ilossetti ;  and 
began  in  185.3  to  give  her  -i'150  a  year  in  exchange  for 
drawings  up  to  that  value,  llossetti's  ]>oems  also  found  a 
warm  admirer  and  advocate.  In  18.j6  'The  Burden  of 
Nineveh'  was  published  anonymously  in  the  O.rford  and 
Ca>nl)riilgr  Miii^az'tne  ;  Mr.  lluskin  wrote  to  Ilossetti  that  it 
was  '  gloriou.s,'  and  that  he  wanted  to  know  who  was  the 
luthor, — perhaps    not    without    a    susi>icion    that    he    was 


152        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHxV  RUSKIN 

uddressing  the  man  who  could  tell.  In  1861  he  guaranteed, 
or  advanced,  the  cost  of  '  The  Early  Italian  Poets,'  up  to 
JPIOO,  with  Smith  and  Elder;  and  endeavoured,  but  unsuc- 
cessfully, to  induce  Thackeray  to  find  a  place  for  other 
poems  in  The  Comhill  Magazine. 

Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti,  in  his  book  on  his  brother  'as 
Designer  and  Writer '  and  in  '  His  Family  Letters '  draws  a 
pleasant  picture  of  the  intimacy  between  the  artist  and  the 
critic.  '  At  one  time,'  he  says,  '  I  am  sme  they  even  loved 
one  another.'  But  in  1865  Rossetti,  never  very  tolerant  of 
criticism  and  patronage,  took  in  bad  part  his  friend's  remon- 
strances about  the  details  of  '  Venus  Verticordia.'  Mr.  Ruskin, 
no  doubt,  wrote  freely ;  for  their  comradeship  had  seemed  to 
warrant  unreserved  confidence  and  undisguised  judgments. 
Eighteen  months  later,  Mr.  Ruskin  tried  to  renew  the  old 
acquaintance.  Rossetti  did  not  return  his  call ;  and  farther 
efforts  on  Mr.  Ruskin's  part,  up  to  1870,  met  with  little 
response.  But  the  lecture  on  Rossetti  in  '  The  Art  of 
England '  shows  that  on  one  side  at  least  '  their  parting,'  as 
Mr.  W.  M.  Rossetti  says,  'was  not  in  anger;'  and  the  portrait 
of  1861,  now  in  the  Oxford  Univei-sity  Galleries,  will  remain  as 
a  memorial  of  the  ten  years'  friendship  of  the  two  famous  men. 

At  Red  Lion  Square,  during  Lent  term  1855,  the  three 
teachers  worked  together  every  Thursday  evening.  With 
the  beginning  of  the  third  term,  March  29,  the  increase  of 
the  class  made  it  more  convenient  to  divide  their  forces. 
Rossetti  thenceforward  taught  the  figure  on  another  night 
of  the  week ;  while  the  elementary  and  landscape  class  con- 
tinued to  meet  on  Thursdays  under  Ruskin  and  Lowes 
Dickinson.  In  1856  the  elementary  and  landscape  class  was 
further  divided,  Mr.  Dickinson  taking  Tuesday  evenings,  and 
Mr.  Ruskin  continuing  the  Thursday  class,  with  the  help  of 
Mr.  William  Ward  as  under-master.  Later  on,  IMessrs.  G. 
Allen,  J.  Bunney,  and  W.  Jeffery  were  teachers.  Mr.  (later 
Sir  Edward)  Burne-Jones,  met  in  1856  at  Rossetti's  studio, 
was  also  pressed  into  the  service  for  a  time. 

There  were  four  teruis  in  the  \Vorking  IVIen's  College  year. 


THE  WORKING  MEN'S  COLLEGE  153 

the  only  vacation,  except  for  the  fortnight  at  Christmas, 
being  from  the  beginning  of  August  to  the  end  of  October. 
Mr.  Kuskin  did  not  always  attend  throughout  the  summer 
term,  tliough  sometimes  his  class  came  down  to  him  into  the 
:ountrv  to  sketch.  lie  kept  up  the  work  without  other 
ntermission  until  May  1858,  after  which  the  completion  of 
Modern  Painters'  and  many  lecture-engagements  took  him 
iway  for  a  time.  In  the  spring  of  1860  he  was  back  at  his 
jld  post  for  a  term  ;  but  after  that  he  discontinued  regular 
ittenilance,  and  went  to  the  Working  Men's  College  only  at 
ntervals,  to  give  addresses  or  informal  lectures  to  students 
ind  friends.  On  such  occasions  the  '  drawing-room '  or  first 
loor  of  the  house  in  which  the  College  was  held  would  be 
ilwavs  crowded,  with  an  audience  who  heard  the  lecturer  at 
lis  best ;  speaking  freely  among  friends  out  of  a  full  treasure- 
louse  'things  new  and  old' — accounts  of  recent  travel, 
ately-discovered  glories  of  art,  and  the  growing  burden  of 
;he  prophecy  that  in  those  years  was  beginning  to  take  more 
lefinite  shape  in  his  mind. 

As  a  teacher,  Mr.  lluskin  was  most  delightful.  He  spared 
10  pains  to  make  the  work  interesting.  He  provided — Mr. 
E.  Cooke  informs  me  that  he  was  the  first  to  provide — cast* 
Toni  natural  leaves  and  fruit  in  place  of  the  ordinary  con- 
.entional  ornament ;  and  he  sent  a  tree  to  be  fixed  in  a 
•orner  of  the  cla.ss-rooni  for  light  and  shade  studies.  Mr. 
IV.  Ward  in  the  preface  to  the  volume  of  letters  already 
[uotcd  says  that  he  used  to  bring  his  minerals  and  shells, 
md  rare  engravings  and  drawings,  to  show  them.  '  His 
lelightful  way  of  talking  about  these  things  afTorded  us  most 
valuable  le.ssons.  To  give  an  example  :  he  one  evening  took 
'or  his  subject  a  cap,  and  with  pen  and  ink  showed  us  how 
Rembrandt  would  liave  etched,  and  Albert  Diirer  engraved 
t.  This  at  once  explained  to  us  the  different  ideas  and 
Tiethods  of  the  two  masters.  On  another  evening  he  would 
:ake  a  subject  from  Turner's  "  Liber  Studiorum,"  and  with  a 
arge  sheet  of  paper  and  some  charcoal,  gradually  block  in 
the  subject,  explaining  at  the  same  time  the  value  and  effect 


154        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

of  the  lines  and  masses.'  And  for  sketching  from  nature  he  In 
would  take  his  class  out  into  the  country,  and  wind  up  with  inten 
tea  and  talk.  '  It  was  a  treat  to  hear  and  see  him  with  his  often 
men,'  writes  Dr.  Furnivall.  afler 

His  object  in  the  work,  as  he  said  before  the  Royal 
Commission  on  National  Institutions,  was  not  to  make  artists, 
but  to  make  the  workmen  better  men,  to  develop  their 
powers  and  feelings, — to  educate  them,  in  short.  He  always 
has  urged  young  people  intending  to  study  art  as  a  pro- 
fession to  enter  the  Academy  Schools,  as  Turner  and  the 
Pre-Ilaphaelites  did,  or  to  take  up  whatever  other  serious 
course  of  practical  discipline  was  open  to  them.  But  he 
held  very  strongly  that  everybody  could  learn  drawing,  that 
their  eyes  could  be  brightened  and  their  hands  steadied,  and 
that  they  could  be  taught  to  anpreciate  the  great  works  of 
nature  and  of  art,  without  wanting  to  make  pictures  or  to 
exhibit  and  sell  them. 

It  was  with  this  intention  that  he  wrote  the  '  Elements  of 
Drawing'  in  1856,  supplemented  by  the  'Elements  of  Per- 
spective' in  1859;  which,  though  out  of  chronological  order, 
may  be  noticed  here  as  an  outcome  of  his  teaching,  and  a 
type  of  it.  The  '  Elements  of  Drawing '  are  taught  in  three 
letters  addressed  to  the  general  amateur ;  the  first  devoted  to 
practice  with  the  point  and  brush,  suggesting  various  ways 
of  making  such  drudgery  interesting.  The  methods  of 
Rembrandt's  etching  and  Diirer's  woodcut  and  Turner's 
mezzotint  are  illustrated,  and  applied  to  naturalistic  land- 
scape. In  the  next  letter  hints  are  given  for  sketching 
from  Nature,  especially  showing  the  impoiiance  of  matching 
colours,  as  studei.tj  are  now  taught  to  do  in  the  better 
schools.  For  the  rest,  the  methods  of  old  William  Hunt 
are  followed,  in  the  use  of  body-colour  and  broken  tints 
Finally,  the  laws  of  Colour  and  Composition  are  analyzed — 
not  for  the  sake  of  teaching  how  to  colour  and  how  to  com- 
pose, but,  as  he  says  again  and  again,  to  lead  to  greater 
appreciation  of  good  colour  and  good  composition  in  the 
works  of  the  masters. 


THE  WORKING  MEN'S  COLLEGE  155 

In  spite  of  the  repeated  statement  that  the  book  was  not 
itended  to  sliow  a  slioit  cut  to  becoming  an  artist,  it  has 
ften  been  niisiisetl  and  misunilerstood ;  so  much  so,  that 
(ler  it  had  proved  its  popularity  by  a  sale  of  8,000,  the 
uthor  let  it  p;o  out  of  j)rint,  intending  to  supersede  it  with 

more  carefully  stated  code  of  directions.  But  the  new 
■ork, 'The  Laws  of  I'Vsole,' was  never  finished;  and  mean- 
■hile  the  'Elements  of  Drawing'  remains,  if  not  a  standard 
jxt-book  of  art,  yet  a  model  of  method  and  a  type  of 
bject-lessons  of  the  greatest  value  to  those  who  wish  to 
jbstitute  a  more  natural,  and  more  truly  educational  method 
)r  the  old  rigid  learning  by  rote  and  routine. 

The  illustrations  for  the  book  were  characteristic  sketches 
y  the  author,  beautifully  cut  by  his  pupil,  W.  H.  Hooper, 
ho  was  one  of  a  band  of  engravei's  and  copyists  formed  by 
[lese  cla.sscs  at  the  AVoiking  Men's  College.  In  spite  of  the 
itention  not  to  make  artists  by  his  teaching,  IMr.  Ruskin 
auld  not  prevent  some  of  his  pupils  from  taking  up  art  as  a 
rofession ;  and  those  who  did  so  became,  in  their  way,  first- 
ite  men.  George  Allen  as  a  me/zotint  engraver,  Arthur 
lurgess  as  a  draughtsman  and  wood-cutter,  John  Uuimey  as 

painter  of  architectural  detail,  W.  Jefi'ery  as  an  artistic 
hotognipher,  E.  Cooke  as  a  teacher,  ^Villiam  AV'ard  as  a 
icsimile  copyist,  have  all  done  work  whose  value  deserves 
L-knowledgment,  all  the  more  because  it  was  not  aimed  at 
opular  effect,  but  at  the  severe  standard  of  the  greater 
•hoois.  But  these  men  were  only  the  side  issue  of  the 
^'orking  Men's  College  enterprise.  Its  real  result  was  in 
le  proof  that  the  labouring  cla.sses  could  be  interested  in 
.rt ;  and  that  the  capacity  shown  by  the  Gothic  workman 
ad  not  entirely  died  out  of  the  nation,  in  spite  of  the 
iterregnuMi,  for  a  full  century,  of  manufacture.  And  the 
cperience  leil  Mr.  Ru>kin  forward  to  wider  views  on  the 
fiture  of  the  arts,  and  on  the  duties  of  pliilauthropic  effort 
ad  social  economy. 


CHAPTEIl  Vnl. 

•MODERN  PAINTERS'  CONTINUED.     (1855-1856.) 

•  Nor  feared  to  follow,  in  the  offence 
Of  false  opinion,  his  own  sense 
Of  justice  unsubdued.' 

Robert,  Loed  Lyttow. 

IT  was  in  the  year  185-5  that  Mr.  Ruskin  first  published 
'Notes  on  the  Royal  Academy  and  other  Exhibitions.' 
He  had  been  so  often  called  upon  to  write  his  opinion 
of  Pre-Raphaelite  pictures,  either  privately  or  to  the  news- 
papers, or  to  mark  his  friends'  catalogues,  that  he  found  at 
last  less  trouble  in  printing  his  notes  once  for  all.  ITie 
new  plan  was  immediately  popular;  three  editions  of  the 
pamphlet  were  called  for  between  June  1  and  July  1. 
Next  year  he  repeated  the  '  Notes '  and  six  editions  were 
sold;  which  indicated  a  great  success  in  those  times,  when 
literature  was  not  spread  broadcast  to  the  millions,  as  it  is 
nowadays,  and  when  the  reading  public  was  comparatively 
limited. 

In  spite  of  a  dissentient  voice  here  and  there,  Mr.  Ruskin 
was  really  by  that  time  recognised  as  the  leading  authority 
upon  t;i.ste  in  painting.  He  was  trusted  by  a  great  section 
of  the  public,  who  had  not  failed  to  notice  how  completely 
he  and  his  friends  were  winning  the  day.  The  proof  of  it 
was  in  the  fact  that  they  were  being  imitated  on  all  sides; 
Ru.skinism  in  writing  and  Pre-Rajihaelitism  in  painting  were 
becoming  fashionable.     Many  an  artist,  who  had  abused  the 


•MODERN  PAINTERS'  CONTINUED  157 

ticw-fnnjjled  style  three  years  ago,  now  did  his  best  to  learn 
the  triik  of  it  and  share  the  success.  It  seemed  easy :  you 
hail  only  to  exaggerate  the  colour  and  emphasise  the  detail, 
people  thought,  and  you  could  *  do  a  ^lillais';  and  if  Millais 
Boki,  w  hy  shouldn't  thiij  ?  And  thus  a  great  mass  of  imitative 
rubhish  was  produced,  entirely  wanting  in  the  freshness  of 
feeling  and  sincerity  of  conception  which  werc  the  ix;al  virtues 
of  the  school. 

Rut  at  the  same  time  the  movement  gave  rise  to  a  new 
method  of  lanilscape-j)ainting,  which  was  very  nnich  to 
Mr.  Ruskin's  mind  ;  not  ba.sed  on  Turner,  and  therefore  not 
secured  from  the  failure  that  all  experiments  risk ;  and  yet 
safe  in  so  far  as  it  kejit  to  honest  study  of  nature.  So  that, 
beside  the  Pre- Raphael itcs  proper,  with  their  poetic  figure- 
piecis,  the  '  Notes  on  the  Academy '  had  to  keep  watch  over 
tiie  birth  of  the  Naturalist-lanilscapc  school,  a  group  of 
pjiinters  who  threw  overboard  the  traditions  of  Turner  and 
Piout,  and  Constable  and  Harding,  and  the  rest,  just  as  the 
I're-R.iphaelite  Hrethren  threw  over  the  Academical  mastei-s. 
For  such  men  their  study  was  their  picture ;  they  devised 
tents  and  huts  in  wiltl  glens  and  upon  waste  niooi-s,  and 
ipent  weeks  in  elaborating  their  details  directly  from  nature, 
nstead  of  painting  at  houie  from  sketches  on  the  spot. 

This  was  the  fulHIment  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  advice  to  young 
irtists  ;  and  so  far  as  young  artists  worked  in  this  way,  for 
3urjK)ses  of  study,  he  encouraged  them.  But  he  did  not  fail 
;o  point  out  that  this  was  not  all  that  could  be  required  of 
;hem.  Even  such  a  work  as  Brett's  '  \al  d'Aosta,"  marvellous 
ks  it  was  in  observation  and  finish,  was  only  the  beginning  of 
I  new  era,  not  its  consunnnation.  It  was  not  the  painting  of 
letail  that  could  make  a  great  artist ;  but  the  knowledge  of 
t,  and  the  masterly  u.se  of  such  knowledge.  A  gix-at  land- 
*'npist  would  know  the  facts  and  eflccts  of  nature,  just  as 
I'intoret  knew  the  forni  of  the  human  figure  ;  and  he  would 
;reat  tluni  with  the  s.'une  frceilom,  as  the  means  of  expressing 
tn-at  ideas,  of  atlbrding  by  the  imagination  noLle  gmunds 
or  noble  emotion,  which,  as  Mr.  Ruskin  bod  been  writing  at 


158        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Vevey  in  1854,  was  poetry.  Meanwhile  the  pubHc  and  the 
critic  ought  to  become  familiar  with  the  aspects  of  nature,  in 
order  to  recognise  the  difference  between  the  true  poetry  of 
painting,  and  the  mere  empty  sentimentalisin  which  was  only 
the  rant  and  bombast  of  landscape  art. 

With  such  feelings  as  these  he  wrote  the  third  and  fourth 
volumes  of  '  Modern  Painters.'  The  work  was  afterwards 
interrupted  only  by  a  recurrence  of  his  old  cough,  in  the 
exceptionally  cold  summer  of  1855.  He  went  down  to 
Tunbridge  \Vells,  where  his  cousin,  William  Richardson  of 
Perth,  was  practising  as  a  doctor  ;  it  was  not  long  before  the 
cough  gave  way  to  treatment,  and  he  was  as  busy  as  ever. 
About  October  of  that  year  he  wi-ote  to  Carlyle  as  follows, 
in  a  letter  printed  by  Professor  C.  E.  Norton,  conveniently 
summing  up  his  year : — 

'  Not  that  I  have  not  been  busy — and  very  busv,  too.  I 
have  written,  since  jMay,  good  six  hundred  pages,  had  them 
rewritten,  cut  up,  corrected,  and  got  fairly  ready  for  press — 
and  am  going  to  press  with  the  first  of  them  on  Gunpowder 
Plot  day,  with  a  great  hope  of  disturbing  the  Public  Peace 
in  various  directions.  Also,  I  have  prepared  about  thirty 
drawings  for  engravers  this  year,  retouched  the  engravings 
(generally  the  woi"st  part  of  the  business),  and  etched  some 
on  steel  myself.  In  the  coiu-se  of  the  six  hundred  pages  I 
have  had  to  make  various  remarks  on  German  ]Metaphvsics, 
on  Poetry,  Political  Economy,  Cookery,  IMusic,  Geology, 
Dress,  Agriculture,  Horticulture,  and  Navigation,*  all  of 
which  subjects  I  have  had  to  "  read  up "  accordingly,  and 
this  takes  time.  IMoreover,  I  have  had  my  class  of  workmen 
out  sketching  every  week  in  the  fields  during  the  summer; 
md  have  been  studying  Spanish  proverbs  with  my  father's 
lartner,  who  came  over  from  Spain  to  see  the  Great  Ex- 
libition.  I  have  also  designed  and  drawn  a  window  for  the 
Museum  at  Oxford ;  and  have  every  now  and  then  had  to 

*  Most  of  these  subjects  will  be  easily  recognised  in  '  Mndern 
Painters,'  vols.  iii.  and  iv.  The  'Navigation'  refers  to  the  'Harboura 
•f  England.' 


I 


•MODERN  PAINTERS'  CONTINUED  159 

lok  over  a  parcel  of  five  or  six  new  designs  for  fronts  and 
leks  to  the  siiiil  Museum. 

'During  my  above-mentioned  studies  of  horticulture,  I 
^ame  dissatisfied  with  the  Linna-nn,  Jussieuan,  and  Every- 
xly-eiseian  arrangement  of  plants,  and  have  accordingly 
Tanged  a  system  of  my  o«n  ;  and  unbound  my  botanical 
jok,  and  rebound  it  in  brighter  green,  with  ail  the  yiages 
irough-other,  and  backside  foremost — so  as  to  cut  off  all 
le  oUl  paging  numerals ;  and  am  now  printing  my  new 
•rangement  in  a  legible  manner,  o;i  interleaved  foolscap.  I 
insider  this  arrangement  one  of  my  great  achievements  of 
le  year.  Mv  studies  of  political  economy  have  induced  me 
I  think  also  that  nobotly  knows  anything  about  that ;  and 
am  at  present  engageil  in  an  investigation,  on  independent 
rinciples,  of  the  natures  of  money,  rent,  and  taxes,  in  an 
jstract  form,  which  sometimes  keeps  me  awake  all  night, 
ly  studies  of  German  metaphysics  have  also  induced  me  to 
link  that  the  Germans  don't  know  anything  jibout  than  ; 
id  to  engage  in  a  serious  emiuiry  into  the  meaning  of 
unsen's  great  sentence  in  the  beginning  of  the  second  volume 
'  the  '•  Hij)])olytus,"  about  the  Finite  realization  of  Lifinity ; 
hich  has  given  me  some  trouble. 

'  The  course  of  my  studies  of  Navigation  necessitated  my 
Ding  to  Deal  to  look  at  the  Deal  boats;  and  those  of 
jology  to  reanange  all  my  minerals  (and  wash  a  good  many, 
hich,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  I  found  wanted  it).  I  have  also 
veral  pupils,  far  and  near,  in  the  art  of  illumination  ;  an 
merican  young  ladv  to  direct  in  the  study  of  landscajje 
minting,  and  a  Yorksiiire  young  lady  to  direct  in  the  purchase 
"Turnci-s, — and  various  little  bye  things  besides.  But  I  am 
>ming  to  see  you.' 

The  tone  of  humorous  exaggeration  of  his  discoveries  and 
xuputions  was  very  characteristic  of  Mr.  Riiskin,  and  it  was 
kely  to  be  brought  out  all  the  more  in  writin.;  to  another 
jmourist  like  Carlyle.  Hut  he  was  then  gi owing  into  the 
ibit  of  leaving  the  matter  in  hand  as  he  often  did  after- 
ards,  to  follow  side  issues,  and  to  take  up  new  studies  with  a 


160        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

hasty  and  divided  attention  ;  the  result  of  which  was  seen 
in  his  sub-title  for  the  third  volume  of  '  Modem  Painters ' — 
'Of  Many  Thin^rs':  which  amused  his  readers  not  a  little. 
But  that  he  still  had  time  for  his  friends  is  seen  in  the  account 
of  a  visit  to  Denmark  Hill,  written  this  year  by  James 
Smetham,  an  artist  who  at  one  time  promised  to  do  great 
things.  He  was  at  any  rate  a  singularly  charming  and 
interesting  man,  admired  by  Mr.  Ruskin  for  his  personal 
character,  and  known  now  by  the  volume  of  his  published 
letters.     He  wTote  : 

'  I  walked  there  through  the  wintry  weather,  and  got  in 
about  dusk.  One  or  two  gossiping  details  will  interest  you 
before  I  give  you  whsvt  I  care  for;  and  so  I  will  tell  you  that 
he  has  a  large  house  with  a  lodge,  and  a  valet  and  footman 
and  coachman,  and  grand  rooms  glittering  with  pictures, 
chiefly  Turners,  and  that  his  father  and  mother  live  with 
him,  or  he  with  them.  .  .  .  His  father  is  a  fine  old  gentleman, 
who  has  a  lot  of  bushy  gray  hair,  and  eyebrows  sticking  up 
all  rough  and  knowing,  with  a  comfortable  way  of  coming  up 
to  you  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  making  you  comfort- 
able, and  saying,  in  answer  to  your  remark,  that  "John's" 
prose  works  are  pretty  good.  His  mother  is  a  ruddy, 
dignified,  richly -dressed  old  gentlewoman  of  seventy-five, 
who  knows  Chamonix  better  than  Camberwell ;  evidently  a 
good  old  lady,  with  the  "  Christian  Treasury ''  tossing  about 
on  the  table.  She  puts  "  John "  down,  and  holds  her  own 
opinions,  and  flatly  contradicts  him  ;  and  he  receives  all  her 
opinions  with  a  soft  reverence  and  gentleness  that  is  jjleasant 
to  witness. 

'  1  wish  I  could  reproduce  a  good  impression  of  "  John ''  for 
you,  to  give  you  the  notion  of  his  "  perfect  gentleness  and 
lowlil'.ood."  He  certainly  bursts  out  with  a  remark,  and  in  a 
coulraelictious  way,  but  only  because  he  believes  it,  with  no 
air  of  dogmatism  or  conceit.  He  is  different  at  home  from 
that  which  he  is  in  a  lecture  before  a  mixed  audience,  and 
there  is  a  spiritual  sweetness  in  the  half-timid  expression  of 
his  eyes ;  and  in  bowing  to  you,  as  in  taking  wine,  with  (if  I 


'MODERN  PAINTERS'  CONTINUED  161 

heard  nri'tclit)  "  I  drink  to  tlicc,"  he  had  a  look  tliat  lias 
fullowcil  iiic,  a  look  horderiiiji;  on  tearful. 

*IIe  spent  some  time  in  this  way.  Unhan^inij  a  Turner 
from  the  wall  of  a  distant  room,  he  hrouj;ht  it  to  the  tuhle 
and  put  it  in  my  liands ;  then  we  talked;  then  he  went  up 
into  his  study  to  feteh  down  some  illustrative  print  or 
drawin;;;  in  one  case,  a  literal  view  which  he  had  travelled 
fifty  miles  to  make,  in  order  to  compare  with  the  picture. 
And  so  he  kept  on  gliding  all  over  tlie  house,  hanging  and 
unhanging,  and  stopi)ing  a  few  minutes  to  talk.' 

Rut  it  was  not  oidy  from  his  mother  that  he  could  hrook 
contradiction,  and  not  only  in  convei-sation  that  he  showed 
himself — contrarv  to  the  general  opinion  of  him — amenable 
to  correction,  when  it  came  from  persons  whom  he  could 
resjiect.  And  yet  there  were  many  with  whom  he  had  to 
deal  who  did  not  look  at  things  in  his  iiglit;  who  took  his 
criticism  as  personal  attack,  aiul  resented  it  with  a  bitterness 
it  did  not  deserve.  There  is  a  story  told  (but  not  by  himself) 
about  one  of  the  '  Notes  on  the  Academy,'  which  he  was  then 
publishing — how  he  wrote  to  an  artist  therein  mentioned  that 
he  regretted  he  could  not  speak  more  favourably  of  his 
picture,  but  he  hoped  it  would  make  no  difference  in  their 
friend>hip.  The  artist  replied  (so  they  sav)  in  these  terms : 
'Dear  Uuskin, — Next  time  I  meet  you,  I  shall  knock  you 
down;  but  I  iiope  it  will  make  no  dill'erence  in  our  friend - 
siiip.'  '  Danni  the  fellow!  why  doesn't  he  stand  up  for  his 
friends?'  saiil  another  disappointed  acquaintance.  Perha|)s 
Mr.  Ruskin,  secure  in  his  '  iiouse  with  a  lodge,  and  a  valet 
and  footman  anil  coachman,'  hardly  realized  that  a  cold  word 
from  his  pen  sometimes  meant  the  failure  of  an  important 
.Academy  picture,  and  serious  loss  of  income — that  there  was 
bitter  truth  underlying  PuiwICs  complaint  of  the  R.  A. : — 

'  I  p.tiiit8  and  paints, 
IltMi-s  no  coiii|.l.iiiit«. 

And  sellH  l)ffore  I'm  ilry  | 
Till  sHva^'e  Ituakic 
Sliclvs  bis  tiiHk  :n, 
And  Qulxxly  will  bujr.' 
11 


162        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Against  these  incidents  should  be  set  such  a  fine  anecdote 
as  the  following,  told  by  Mr.  J.  J.  Ruskin  in  a  letter  of 
June  3,  1858.  '  V^okins  wished  me  to  name  to  you  that 
Carrick,  when  he  read  your  criticism  on  "  AN'^eary  Life,"  came 
to  liim  with  the  cheque  \'okins  had  given,  and  said  your 
remarks  were  all  right,  and  that  he  could  not  take  the  price 
paid  by  Vokins  the  buyer;  he  would  alter  the  picture. 
\'okins  took  back  the  money,  only  agreeing  to  see  the 
picture  when  it  was  done.'' 

As  a  public  man,  it  was  his  duty  to  'be  just  and  fear  not'; 
and,  hard  as  it  is  to  be  just,  when  one  looks  over  these  '  Notes 
on  the  Academy '  at  this  safe  distance  of  time,  one  is  surprised 
to  see  with  what  shrewdness  he  put  his  finger  upon  the  weak 
points  of  the  various  artists,  and  no  less  upon  their  strong 
points  ;  how  many  of  the  men  he  praised  as  beginners  have 
since  risen  to  eminence,  how  manv  he  blamed  have  sunk 
from  a  specious  popularity  into  oblivion.  Contrast  his  career 
as  a  critic  with  that  of  other  well-knoAvn  men,  the  Jeffreys 
and  the  GifFords,  not  to  mention  writers  of  a  later  date ; 
and  note  that  his  error  was  always  to  encourage  too  freely, 
not  to  discourage  hastily.  The  men  who  laid  their  failm-e 
to  his  account  were  the  weakling-s  whom  he  urged  to 
attempts  beyond  their  powei-s,  with  kindly  support,  mis- 
construed into  a  prophecy  of  success.  No  article  of  his 
snuffed  out  a  rising  Keats,  or  di-ove  a  young  Chatterton 
to  suicide.  And  he  never  stabbed  in  the  dark.  'Tout 
honnete  homme  doit  avouer  les  li\Tes  qu'il  public,'  says 
his  proto-type  Rousseau :  and  Mr.  Ruskin,  after  publishing 
his  first  juvenile  essays  under  a  transparent  pseudonym, 
always  had  the  courage  of  his  opinions  and  took  the  conse- 
quences of  his  criticisms. 

His  relations  with  Carlyle  show  how  far  he  was  above  the 
conceit  of  the  ordinary  clever  man.  The  same  conies  out  in 
his  dealings  with  other  of  his  friends, — for  example,  the 
Brownings.  A  letter  from  Mi-s.  Browning  describes  a  visit 
to  Denmark  Hill,  and  ends, — '  I  like  Mr.  Ruskin  very  much, 
and  so  does  Robert :  very  gentle,  yet  earnest — refined  and 


•MODERN  PAINTERS'  CONTINUED  163 

ruthfiil.  I  like  him  very  much.  We  count  him  one  among 
he  viiluiible  aaiimiutiuices  nuule  tliis  year  in  Enu;land.'  This 
las  iK'cn  diitcil  1855;  but  Mr.  Uuskin,  writing  to  Miss 
Hitford  from  Glenfinlas  ITtli  August  1853,  says,  'I  had  the 
)lcasure,  this  spring,  of  being  made  acquainteil  with  your 
lear  Ehwibeth  Hrowning,  as  well  as  with  her  husband.  I 
las  of  coui-se  prepared  to  like  her,  but  I  did  not  expect  to 
ike  him  as  nuich  as  I  did.  I  think  he  is  really  a  very  fine 
L'iiow,  and  she  is  the  only  sensible  woman  I  have  yet  met 
rith  on  the  subject  of  Italian  politics.  Eviileiitly  a  noble 
reature  in  all  tilings."  In  June  1850,  Mr.  Ruskin  had  met 
lobert  Brownitig,  on  the  invitation  of  Coventry  Patmore, 
nd  said  he  liked  him.  'He  is  the  only  person  whom  I  have 
ver  heard  bilk  rationally  about  the  Italians,  though  on  the 
..iberal  siile.' 

In  these  volumes  of  'Modem  Painters'  he  had  to  di.scuss 
he  Mediii'val  and  Renaissance  spirit  in  its  relation  to  art, 
nil  to  illustrate  from  Browning's  poetry,  '  unerring  in  every 
cntencc  he  writes  of  the  Middle  Ages,  always  vital  antl  right 
•nd  profound  ;  so  that  in  the  matter  of  art  there  is  hardly  a 
irinciple  connected  with  the  media;val  temper  that  he  has 
lot  struck  upon  in  those  seemingly  careless  and  too  rugged 
incs  of  his.'  This  was  written  twenty-five  years  before  the 
Jrowning  Society  was  heard  of,  and  at  a  time  when  the  style 
if  Brow ning  wiis  an  offence  to  most  people.  To  Mr.  Ruskin, 
Iso,  it  hail  been  something  of  a  puzzle  ;  and  he  wrote  to  the 
loct,  a-sking  him  to  explain  himself;  which  the  jioet  accord- 
ugly  did,  in  a  letter  too  interesting  to  remain  un|)rintcd, 
howing  as  it  does  the  candid  intercourse  of  t«o  such 
liflereiit  minds. 

•Paris, 

'i>,c.  lOM,  '65. 

'My  dkar  RisKix, — for  so  you  let  me  begin,  with  the 
lonest  friendliness  that  befits, — 

'  Vou  never  were  more  in  the  wrong  than  whcji  you 
>rofesscd  to  say  "your  unpleasant  things"  to  me.     This  is 
)leasant  and  proper  at  all  points,  over-liberal  of  praise  here 
11—2 


164        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Rnci  there,  kindly  and  sympathetic  everywhere,  and  with 
enour;h  of  youreelf  in  even — what  I  fancy — the  misjudjiinix, 
to  make  the  whole  letter  precious  indeed.  I  wanted  to  thank 
vou  thus  much  at  once, — that  is,  when  the  letter  reached  me ; 
but  the  strife  of  loclgin<;-huntin,^  was  too  sore,  and  only  now 
that  I  can  sit  down  for  a  minute  without  self-reproach  do  I 
allow  my  thoughts  to  let  go  south-aspects,  warm  bedrooms, 
and  the  like,  and  begin  as  vou  see.  For  the  deepnesses  you 
think  you  discern, — may  they  be  more  than  mere  black- 
ne.sses !  For  the  hopes  you  enteilain  of  what  may  come  of 
subsequent  readings, — all  success  to  them  !  For  your  bewil- 
derment more  especiallv  noted — how  shall  I  help  that?  We 
don't  read  poetry  the  same  way,  by  the  same  law ;  it  is  too 
clear.  I  cannot  begin  writing  poetry  till  my  imaginary 
reader  has  conceded  licences  to  me  which  you  demur  at 
altogether.  I  Icnoic  that  I  don't  make  out  mv  conception  by 
my  language,  all  poetry  being  a  putting  the  infinite  within 
the  finite.  You  would  have  me  paint  it  all  plain  out, 
which  can't  be ;  but  by  various  artifices  I  try  to  make  shift 
with  touches  and  bits  of  outlines  which  succeed  if  they  bear 
the  conception  from  me  to  you.  You  ought,  I  think,  to 
keep  pace  with  the  thought  tripping  from  ledge  to  ledge  of 
my  "  glaciers,"  as  you  call  them ;  not  st^nd  poking  your 
alpenstock  into  the  holes,  and  demonstrating  that  no  foot 
could  have  stootl  there ; — suppose  it  sprang  over  there  .'*  In 
jirose  you  may  criticise  so — because  that  is  the  absolute 
representation  of  portions  of  truth,  what  chronicling  is  to 
history — but  in  asking  for  more  ulthnatcs  you  must  accept 
less  mediates,  nor  expect  that  a  Druid  stone-circle  will  be 
traced  for  vou  with  as  few  breaks  to  the  eye  as  the  North 
Crescent  ami  South  Crescent  that  go  together  so  cleverly  in 
many  a  sulmrb.  AMiy,  you  look  at  my  little  song  as  if  it 
were  Hobhs"  or  Nobbs'  lease  of  his  house,  or  testament  of  his 
devisings,  wherein,  I  gi-ant  you,  not  a  "  then  and  there,"  "  to 
liiin  and  his  heirs,"  "to  have  and  to  hold,"  and  so  on,  woul  I 
be  superfluous;  and  so  vou  begin: — "Stand  still, — wliy  .^"* 

♦  ReferriDg  to  tbe  poem,  '  Stand  still,  true  poet  that  you  are,'  with 
the  line,  '  And  Hobbs,  Nobbs,  Stokes,  and  Nokes  combine.' 


•MODERN  PAINTERS'  CONTINUED  165 

For  the  reason  indicated  in  the  verse,  to  be  sure, — to  let  me 
:lruzi)  him — and  because  lie  is  at  present  going  his  wav,  and 
fancying  nobody  notices  him, — and  moreover,  "going  on  "" 
(as  we  say)  against  the  injustice  of  tiiat, — and  lastly,  inasmuch 
as  one  night  he'll  fail  us,  as  a  star  is  apt  to  drop  out  of 
heaven,  in  authentic  astronomic  records,  and  I  want  to  make 
the  most  of  my  time.  So  much  may  be  in  "stand  still." 
And  how  much  more  was  (for  instance)  in  that  "stay!"  of 
Sanmei's  (I.  xv.  16).  So  could  I  twit  you  through  the  whole 
series  of  your  objurgations,  but  the  declaring  my  own  notion 
of  the  law  on  the  subject  will  do.  And  why, — I  prithee, 
friend  and  fellow-student, — whv,  having  tolil  the  Poet  what 
you  read, — may  I  not  turn  to  the  bystanders,  and  tell  them 
%  l)it  of  my  mind  about  their  own  stupid  thanklessness  and 
mistaking.''  Is  the  jump  too  much  there.''  The  whole  is  aH 
but  a  simultaneous  feeling  with  me. 

'  The  other  hard  measure  you  deal  me  I  won't  bear — 
ibout  my  retjuiring  you  to  pronounce  words  short  and  long, 
ixactly  as  I  like.  Nay,  but  exactly  as  the  language  likes,  in 
this  case.  FoUhkirts  not  a  trochee.'  A  spondee  possible 
in  English?  Two  of  the  "longest  monosyllables"  con- 
tinuing to  be  each  of  the  whole  length  when  in  junction.' 
Sentence:  let  the  delinijuent  be  forceil  to  supply  the  stone- 
;utter  with  a  thousand  companions  to  "  Affliction  sore — long 
;ime  he  bore,"  after  the  fashion  of  "  He  lost  his  life — by 
I  penknife" — "lie  turned  to  clay — last  Good  Friday," 
'  Departed  hence — nor  owed  six-pence,"  and  so  on — so  would 
jronounce  a  jury  accustomctl  from  the  nip])le  to  say  lord  and 
anillord,  bridge  antl  Cambridge,  Gog  and  Magog,  man  and 
»'oman,  hou.se  and  workhouse,  coal  and  charcoal,  cloth  and 
jroad-doth,  skirts  and  fold-skirts,  more  and  once  more, — 
n  short !  Once  more  I  prayed  ! — is  the  confession  of  a  self- 
leurching  professor !     "  I  stand  here  for  law  !" 

'  The  hust  charge  I  cannot  answer,  for  you  may  be  right  in 
^referring  it,  however  unwitting  I  am  of  the  fact.  I  may 
3ut  Robert  Browning  into  I'ippa  and  other  men  and  maid<* 
[f  so,  pcccavi :  but  I  don't  see  myself  in  them,  at  all  events. 


166        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

'  Do  you  think  poetry  was  ever  generally  understood — or 
can  be  ?  Is  the  business  of  it  to  tell  people  what  they  know 
already,  as  they  know  it,  and  so  precisely  that  they  shall  be 
able  to  cry  out — "  Here  you  should  sup]My  this — that,  you 
evidently  pass  over,  and  FU  help  you  from  my  own  stock "  ? 
It  is  all  teaching,  on  the  contrary,  and  the  ])eople  hate  to 
be  taught.  They  say  otherwise, — make  foolish  fables  about 
Orpheus  enchanting  stocks  and  stones,  poets  standing  up  and 
being  worshipped, — all  nonsense  and  impossible  dreaming. 
A  poet's  affair  is  with  God, — to  whom  he  is  accountable,  and 
of  whom  is  his  reward ;  look  elsewhere,  and  you  find  misery 
enough.  Do  you  believe  people  understand  "Hamlet"? 
The  last  time  I  saw  it  acted,  the  heartiest  ajiplause  of  the 
night  went  to  a  little  by-play  of  the  actor's  own — who,  to  ■ 
sinmlate  madness  in  a  hurry,  plucked  forth  his  handkerchie 
and  flourished  it  hither  and  thither :  certainly  a  third  of  the 
play,  with  no  end  of  noble  things,  had  been  (as  from  time 
immemorial)  suppressed,  with  the  auditory's  amplest  acqui- 
escence and  benediction.  Aie  these  wasted,  therefore  ?  No — • 
they  act  upon  a  very  few,  who  react  upon  the  rest:  as 
Goldsmith  says,  "some  lords,  my  acquaintance,  that  settle 
the  nation,  are  pleased  to  be  kind." 

'  Don't  let  me  lose  my  lord  by  any  seeming  self-sufficiency 
or  petulance :  I  look  on  my  own  shortcomings  too  soiTOW- 
fully,  try  to  remedy  them  too  earnestly :  but  I  shall  never 
change  my  point  of  sight,  or  feel  other  than  disconcerted 
and  apprehensive  when  the  public,  critics  and  all,  begin  to 
understand  and  approve  me.  But  what  right  have  you  to 
disconcert  me  in  the  other  way  .'*  Why  won't  you  ask  tlie 
next  perfumer  for  a  packet  of  orr'is-ioot  ?  Don't  everybody 
know  'tis  a  corruption  of  Jrw-root — the  Florentine  lily,  the 
giaggolo,  of  world-wide  fame  as  a  good  savour.?  And 
because  "iris"  means  so  many  objects  already,  and  I  use 
the  okl  word,  you  blame  me!  But  I  write  in  the  blind-dark, 
and  bitter  cold,  and  past  post-time  as  I  fear.  Take  my 
truest  thanks,  and  understand  at  least  this  rough  writing, 


'  MODERN  PAINTERS  '  CONTINUED  1G7 

an  1,  nt  nil  events,  the  real  afT'ection  with  which  I  venture  to 
regarii  you.     And  "  I  "  means  my  wife  as  well  as 
'Yours  ever  faitlifully, 

'RoBEllT  Rkowning.' 

Tliat  Air.  Riiskin  was  open  to  conviction  and  convci-sion 
could  be  shown  from  the  ditference  in  his  tone  of  thoujjht 
ahout  poetry  before  and  after  this  period ;  that  he  was  the 
best  of  friends  with  the  man  who  took  him  to  task  for 
narrowness,  may  be  seen  from  the  following  letter,  written 
on  tlie  next  Christmas  Eve. 

'My  dear  Mr.  Ruskin, — 

'  Your  note  having  just  arrived,  Robert  deputes  me 
to  write  for  him  while  he  dresses  to  go  out  on  an  engagement. 
It  is  the  evening.  All  the  hours  are  wasted,  since  the 
luorning,  through  our  not  being  found  at  the  Rue  de 
Grenelle,  but  here — and  our  instinct  of  self-preservation  or 
self-s^itisfaction  insists  on  our  not  losing  a  moment  more  by 
our  own  fault. 

'Thank  you,  thank  you  for  sending  us  your  book,  and  also 
for  writing  my  husband's  name  in  it.  It  will  be  the  same 
thing  as  if  you  had  written  niiiie — except  for  the  plejusure,  as 
you  say,  which  is  greater  so.     How  good  and  kind  you  are! 

'And  not  well.  That  is  woi-st.  Surely  you  would  be 
better  if  you  had  the  summer  in  winter  we  have  here.  But 
1  was  to  write  only  a  word — Let  it  say  how  aflectionately  we 
regard  you. 

'ELiz.MiETH  Bauueii-  BuowxiNO, 

'3,  Rue  d0  CoLVsif.E, 

'  TUartday  Evening,  'Hlk '  {Decfniber,  1855). 


So  it  c&me  true — 


'  I've  a  Friend,  over  the  sea ; 
I  like  him,  but  he  loves  tne. 
It  all  grew  out  of  the  books  I  write.  .  . 


CHAPTER  K. 

THE  POLITICAL  ECONOMY  OF  ART.'    (1857-1858.) 

•Pitch  thy  behaviour  low,  thy  projects  high.' 

George  Hekbeet. 

THE  humble  work  of  the  drawing -classes  at  Great 
Oimond  Street  was  teaching  ]Mr.  Rusk  in  even  more 
than  he  taught  his  pupils.  It  was  showing  him  how 
far  his  plans  were  practicable  ;  how  they  should  be  modified  ; 
how  they  might  be  improved  ;  and  especially  what  more, 
beside  drawing-classes,  was  needed  to  realize  his  ideal.  It 
brought  him  into  contact  with  uneducated  men,  and  the 
Beamy  side  of  civilization,  as  it  is  usually  thought  to  be — 
poverty  and  ignorance,  and,  most  difficult  of  ail  to  treat,  the 
incompetence  and  the  predestinated  unsuccess  of  too  many  an 
ambitious  nature.  That  was,  after  all,  the  great  proble'm 
■which  was  to  occupy  him  ;  but  meanwhile  he  was  anxiously 
willing  to  co-operate  with  every  movement,  to  join  hands 
with  any  kind  of  man,  to  go  anywhere,  do  anything  that 
might  promote  the  cause  he  had  at  heart. 

Already  at  the  end  of  ISji  he  had  given  three  lectures, 
his  second  course,  at  the  Architectural  Museum,  specially 
addressed  to  workmen  in  the  decorative  trades.  His  subjects 
were  design  and  colour,  and  his  illustrations  were  chieHy 
drawn  from  metliasval  illumination,  which  he  had  long  been 
studying.  These  were  informal,  quasi-private  aflairs,  which 
nevertheless  attracted  notice  owing  to  the  celebrity  of  the 
epeaker.    It  would  have  been  better  if  his  addresses  had  been 


•THE  POLITICAL  ECONOMY  OF  ART'      169 

:arefiilly  prepared  nndniithentically  published  ;  for  a  chance 
«ord  heix"  and  there  raised  replies  about  matters  of  detail 
in  which  liis  critics  thoui;ht  they  had  gained  a  technical 
ulvantage,  adding  weiglit  to  his  f'atiier's  desire  not  to  sec  him 
expose  himself' in  this  way.  There  were  no  wore  lectures 
jntil  the  beginning  of  1857. 

On  January  ilSvil,  1857,  he  spoke  before  the  Architectural 
Association  upon  '  The  Iiillucnce  of  Imagination  in  Archi- 
tecture,' repeating  and  ami)lifying  what  he  hail  saiil  at  Edin- 
l)urgh  about  the  subortlinate  value  of  mere  proportion,  and 
the  importance  of  sculptured  ornament  basctl  on  natural 
forms.  This  of  course  would  involve  the  creation  of  a  class 
af  stone-carvci-s  who  could  be  trusted  with  the  execution  of 
such  work.  Once  grant  the  value  of  it,  and  public  demand 
would  encourage  the  supply,  and  the  workmen  would  raise 
themselves  in  the  ertbrt. 

A  louder  note  was  sounded  in  an  address  at  the  St.  Martin's 
school  of  Art,  Castle  Street,  Long  Acre  (April  iim\,  1857), 
rthere,  speaking  after  George  CruikNhank,  his  old  friend^ 
practically  his  liret  master — and  an  enthusia>'tic  j)hilanthropist 
ind  temperance  advocate,  Mr.  lluskin  gave  his  auilience  a 
ttitler  view  of  art  than  they  had  know n  before :  '  the  kind  of 
[)ainting  they  most  wanted  in  London  was  painting  cheeks 
red  with  health.'  This  was  anticipating  the  standpoint  of 
the  Oxfonl  Lectures,  and  showed  how  the  inquiry  was 
l)eginning  to  take  a  much  broader  aspect. 

Another  work  in  a  similar  sjjirit,  the  North  I-ondon  School 
sf  DiNign,  hail  been  prosperously  started  by  a  circle  of  men 
uiukr  I'rc-Haphaelite  inHuence,  and  led  by  Thomas  Seddon. 
lie  had  given  up  historical  and  poetic  painting  lor  naturalistic 
landscajjc,  and  had  returned  from  the  East  with  the  most 
valuable  studies  completed,  only  to  break  dow.i  and  die 
prematurely.  His  friends,  among  them  Mr.  llolman  Hunt, 
were  collecting  money  to  buy  from  the  widow  his  |)icture  of 
Jerusalem  from  the  Mount  of  Olives,  to  jnocnt  it  to  the 
National  Gallery  as  a  memorial  of  him  ;  anil  at  a  meeting  for 
the  purpose,  Mr.  Ruskin  s])okc  warmly  of  his  labours  in  the 


170        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

cause  of  the  working  classes.  '  The  blood  of  the  mart^Ts  is 
the  seed  of  the  Church,"  said  the  early  Christians,  and  this 
public  recognition  sealed  the  character  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite 
philanthropic  movement;  though  at  what  cost,  the  memoir 
of  Thomas  Seddon  by  his  brother  too  amply  proves. 

The  next  step  in  the  propaganda  was  of  a  still  more  public^ 
natm-e.  In  the  summer  of  1857  the  Art  Treasures  Exhibition 
was  held  at  Manchester,  and  IMr.  Ruskin  was  invited  to 
lecture.  The  theme  he  chose  was  '  The  Political  Economy 
of  Aj't."'  He  had  been  studying  political  economy  closely  for 
some  time  back,  but,  as  we  saw  from  his  letter  to  Carlyle,  he 
had  found  no  answer  in  the  ordinary  text -books  for  the 
questions  he  tried  to  put.  He  wanted  to  know  what  Bentham 
and  Ricardo  and  Mill,  the  great  authorities,  would  advise  him 
as  to  the  best  way  of  emjiloying  artists,  of  educating  work 
men,  of  elevating  public  taste,  of  regulating  patronage ;  but 
these  subjects  were  not  in  their  progrannne.  And  so  he  put 
together  his  own  thoughts  into  two  lectures  upon  Art  con- 
sidered as  Wealth  :  fii-st,  how  to  get  it ;  next,  how  to  use  it, 

He  compared  the  body  politic  to  a  farm,  of  which  the 
'  economy,'  in  the  original  sense,  consisted,  not  in  sparing,  still 
less  in  standing  by  and  criticising,  but  in  active  direction  and 
management.  He  thought  that  the  government  of  a  state 
like  a  good  farmer  or  housekeeper,  should  not  be  content  with 
laissezj'aire,  but  should  promote  everything  that  was  for  tl 
true  interests  of  the  state,  and  watch  over  all  the  industries 
and  arts  which  make  for  civilization.  It  should  undertake 
education,  and  be  responsible  for  the  employment  of  the 
artists  and  craftsmen  it  produced,  giving  them  work  ujion 
public  buildings,  as  the  Venetian  state  used  to  do.  ^Meantime 
he  showed  what  an  enlightened  public  might  aim  at,  what 
their  standards  of  patronage  should  be  ;  how,  for  example 
each  and  all  might  help  the  cause  by  preferring  artistic 
decorative  work,  in   furniture  and  plate  and  dress,  to  the 

*  July  10  and  13,  1857.     He  went  to  Manchester  from  Oxford, 
•where  he  had  been  st.iying  with  the  Liddells,  writing  enthusia-stically  ••  M 
of  the  beauty  of  their  children  and  the  charm  of  their  domestic  life. 


«TIIE  POLITICAL  ECONOMY  OF  ART'       171 

lechanital  products  of  inmtistic  manufacture;  how  Hrv 
light  help  in  preserviii'T  tlie  great  stanclaril  buildings  and 
ictures  of  the  past,  not  without  ativantages  to  tiieir  own 
rt-pro(hRtion  ;  how  tliey  might  ileal  directly  with  the  artist 
ither  than  the  dealer;  and  serve  the  cause  of  education  bv 
lacing  works  of  art  in  schools.  And  he  concluded  by 
iggcsting  that  the  mcdifvval  guilds  of  craftsmen,  if  tiiey 
3uld  be  re-established,  would  be  of  great  service,  especially 
1  substituting  a  sjjirit  of  couj)eration  for  that  of  coni- 
etition. 

There  were  very  few  points  in  these  lectures  that  were  not 
igorously  contested  at  the  moment,  anil  conceded  in  the 
;i|uel, — in  some  form  or  other.  The  paternal  function  of 
ovenimcnt,  the  right  of  the  state  to  interfere  in  mattera 
cyonil  its  trailitional  range,  its  ilutv  with  rcgaril  to  educa- 
lon, — all  this  was  quite  contrary  to  the  prevailing  habits  of 
lought  of  the  time,  especially  at  Manchester,  the  head- 
uarters  of  the  laisxezjiiire  school :  but  to  Mr.  Rusk  in,  who, 
iiriously  enough,  had  just  then  been  referring  sarcastically  to 
ierman  philosophy,  knowing  it  only  at  second-hand,  and 
naware  of  IlegePs  political  work, — to  him  this  Platonic  con- 
jption  of  the  state  was  the  only  possible  one,  as  it  is  to  most 
cople  nowadays.  In  the  same  way,  his  practical  advice  hius 
een  accepted,  jjcrhaps  unwittingly,  by  our  times.  We  do 
ow  understand  the  diU'erence  between  ai-tistic  decoration  and 
lachine-niade  wares;  we  do  now  try  to  preserve  ancient 
lonuments,  and  to  use  art  as  a  means  of  education.  And 
e  are  in  a  fair  way,  it  seems,  of  lowering  the  price  of 
ictures,  as  he  bids  us,  to  '  not  more  than  £500  for  an  oil 
icture  and  i'lOO  for  a  water-colour.' 

From  Atanchcstcr  he  went  with  his  parents  to  Scotland ; 
)r  his  mother,  now  beginning  to  grow  old,  wanted  to  revisit 
fie  scenes  of  her  youth.  They  went  to  the  Highlands  and 
s  far  north  as  the  Ray  of  Cromartv,  and  then  returned  by 
ay  of  the  Abbeys  of  the  Lowlands,  to  look  up  Turner  sites, 
B  he  hail  done  in  ISlo  on  the  St.  Gothanl.  From  the 
DJoymcnt  of  this  holiday  he  was  recalled  to  London  by  a 


172        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

leder  from  Mr.  Wormim  saying  that  he  could  arrange  the 
Turner  drawings  at  the  National  Gallery. 

Mr.  Ruskin's  first  letter  on  the  National  Gallery,  in  18-t7, 
has  been  noticed.  He  had  written  again  to  the  Times 
(Dec.  ^9th,  1852),  pressing  the  same  point — namely,  that  if 
the  pictures  were  put  uniler  glass,  no  cleaning  nor  restoring 
would  be  needed ;  and  that  the  Gallery  ought  not  to  be  con- 
sidered as  a  grand  hall,  decorated  with  pictures,  but  as  a 
convenient  museum,  with  a  chronological  sequence  of  the 
best  woi-ks  of  all  schools, — every  picture  hung  on  the  line 
and  accompanied  by  studies  for  it,  if  procurable,  and  en- 
gravings from  it. 

Now, — in  1857, — question  was  raised  of  removing  the 
National  Gallery  from  Trafalgar  Square.  The  South 
Kensington  Museum  was  being  formed,  and  the  whole 
business  of  arranging  the  national  art  treasures  was  gone 
into  by  a  Royal  Commission,  consisting  of  Lord  Broughton 
(in  the  chair).  Dean  Milman,  Prof.  Faraday,  Prof.  Cockerell, 
and  Mr.  George  Richmond.  Mr.  Ruskin  was  examined 
before  them  on  April  6th,  and  re-stated  the  opinions  he  had 
written  to  the  Times,  adding  that  he  would  like  to  see  two 
National  Galleries, — one  of  popular  interest,  containing  such 
works  as  would  catch  the  public  eye  and  enlist  the  sympathy 
of  the  untaught ;  and  another  containing  only  the  cream  of 
the  collections,  in  pictures,  sculpture  and  the  decorative  \ 
crafts,  arranged  for  purposes  of  study.  This  was  suggested 
as  an  ideal ;  of  course,  it  would  involve  more  outlay,  and  less 
display,  than  any  Parliamentary  vote  would  sanction,  or 
party  leader  risk. 

Another  question  of  importance  was  the  disposal  of  the 
pictures  and  sketches  which  Turner  had  left  to  the  nation. 
Mr.  Ruskin  was  one  of  the  executors  under  the  will ;  but,  oa 
finding  that,  though  Turner's  intention  was  plain,  there  were 
technical  informalities  which  would  make  the  atlministration 
anything  but  easy,  he  declined  to  act.  It  was  not  until  1856 
that  the  litigation  was  concluded,  and  Turner's  pictures  and 
iketches  were  handed  to  the  Trustees  of  the  National  Gallery. 


•THE  POLITICAL  ECONOMY  OF  ART'       173 

ifr.  Ruskin,  vliose  want  of  lojjal  knowlcdfjc  had  made  liis 
crviccs  iiscltss  before,  now  felt  that  he  could  carry  out  tlie 
pirit  of  Turner's  will  by  oflcrinp;  to  arranjje  the  sketches; 
ihich  were  in  such  a  state  of  confusion  that  only  some  person 
litli  knowledge  of  the  artist's  habits  of  work  and  subjects 
ould,  so  to  speak,  edit  them;  and  the  editor  would  need  no 
rdinary  skill,  patience  antl  judgment,  into  the  bargain. 

Meanwhile,  for  that  winter  (18.3(5-7)  a  preliminary  exhibi- 
ion  was  held  of  Turner's  oil-paintings,  with  a  few  water- 
oloui-s,  at  Marlborough  House,  then  the  headcjuarters  of  the 
)e|)artment  of  Science  and  Art,  soon  afterwards  removed  to 
iouth  Kensington.  Mr.  Ruskin  wrote  a  catalogue,  with 
nalysis  of  Turner's  periods  of  development  and  character- 
sties;  wliich  made  the  collection  intelligible  and  interesting 
o  curious  sight -scei-s.  They  showed  their  appreciation  by 
aking  up  five  editions  in  rapid  succession.* 

Just  before  lecturing  at  Manchester,  he  wrote  again  on 
he  subject  to  the  Times;  and  in  Se]itember  his  friend 
I.  N.  Wornum,  Director  of  the  National  Gallery  in  succes- 
ion  to  Eastlake  and  Uwins,  wrote — as  we  saw — that  he 
night  arrange  the  sketches  as  he  pleased.  He  returned 
rom  Scotland,  and  set  to  work  on  October  7th. 

It  was  strange  employment  for  a  man  of  his  powers; 
Imost  as  removed  from  the  Epicurean  Olympus  of 'cultured 
ase'  po|)ularly  a.ssigned  to  him,  as  night-school  teadiing  and 
xturing  to  workmen.  But,  beside  that  it  was  the  carrying 
ut  of  Turner's  wishes,  Mr.  Ruskin  always  had  a  certain 
3\v.  for  experimenting  in  manual  toil ;  anil  this  was  work  in 
hich  his  extreme  neatness  and  deftness  of  hand  was  needed, 

10  less  than  his  knowledge  anil  judgment.  During  the 
.inter,  for  full  six  months,  he  and  his  two  assistants  worked, 

11  day  and  every  day,  among  the  masses  of  precious  rubbish 

•  Up  to  1857  Clanrle'H  nnme  nearly  always  appears  in  the  annnnl 
pports  of  the  National  Gallery  among  the  '  pictures  most  frequently 
I'pied.'  In  that  year  Turner's  pictuics  were  exhibited.  Olaude  thencp- 
>rth  lo«t  the  favour  of  the  copyiata.  Turner  gained  it  at  once,  and  hau 
:"pl  it  ever  since. 


174        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

that  had  been  removed  from  Queen  Anne  Street  to  the 
National  Gallery. 

IMr.  J.  J.  Ruskin  wrote,  on  February  19  and  21,  1852 : — 

'I  have  just  been  through  Turner's  house  with  Griffith. 
His  labour  is  more  astonishing  than  his  genius.  Tliere  are 
^^80,000  of  oil  pictures  done  and  undone — Boxes  half  as  big 
as  your  Study  Table,  filled  with  Drawings  and  Sketches. 
There  are  Copies  of  Liber  Studiorum  to  fill  all  your  Drawers 
and  more,  and  House  ^\'alls  of  proof  plates  in  Reams — they 
may  go  at  1/-  each.  .  .  . 

'  Nothing  since  Pompeii  so  impressed  me  as  the  interior  of 
Turner's  house;  the  accumulated  dust  of  40  years  partially 
cleared  off;  Daylight  for  the  first  time  admitted  by  opening 
a  window  on  the  finest  productions  of  art  buried  for  40  vears. 
TTie  Drawing  Room  has,  it  is  reckoned,  i?25,000  worth  of 
proofs,  and  sketches,  and  Drawings,  and  Prints.  It  is  anmsing 
to  hear  Dealers  saying  there  can  be  no  Liber  Studiorums — • 
when  I  saw  neatly  packed  and  well  labelled  as  many  Bundles 
of  Liber  Studiorum  as  would  fill  your  entire  Bookcase,  and 
England  and  "Wales  proofs  in  packed  and  labelled  Bundles 
like  Reams  of  paper,  as  I  told  you,  piled  nearly  to  Ceiling  .  .  . 

'The  house  must  be  dry  as  a  Bone — the  parcels  were 
apparently  quite  uninjured.  The  very  large  pictm-es  were 
spotted,  but  not  much.  They  stood  leaning  one  against 
another  in  the  large  low  Rooms.  Some^inhlud  go  to  Nation, 
many  unfinished  7iot :  no  frames.  Two  are  given  un- 
conditional of  Gallery  Building — ve?-yjine :  if  (and  this  is  a 
condition)  placed  beside  Claude.  The  style  much  like  the 
laying  on  in  Windmill  Lock  in  Dealers  hands,  which,  now  it 
is  cleaned,  comes  out  a  real  Beauty.  I  believe  Turner  loved 
it.  The  will  desires  all  to  be  framed  and  repaired  and  put 
into  the  best  showing  state;  as  if  he  could  not  release  his 
money  to  do  this  till  he  was  dead.  The  Top  of  his  Gallery 
is  one  ruin  of  Glass  and  patches  of  paper,  now  only  just 
made  weather-proof  .  .  . 

'  I  saw  in  Turner's  Rooms,  Geo.  Morlands  and  fVilsojis  and 
Claudes  and  portraits  in  various  stiles  aU  by  Turner.     He 


•THE  POLITICAL  ECONOMY  OF  ART'       175 

•pied  every  man,  was  every  man  first,  and  took  up  his  own 
yie,  castinjj  all  others  away.  It  seems  to  me  you  may  keep 
)ur  money  and  revel  for  ever  and  for  nothing  among  Turner  s 
rorks; 

Turner  used  frequently  to  sketch  on  thin  paper  which  he 
liled  across  and  across  for  packing,  or  rolled  in  tight  hundlcs 
I  go  into  his  pockets.  AVhen  he  got  his  sketches  home,  as 
ley  were  oi\\\  pour  srrvir  and  of  no  value  to  any  one  hut 
mself,  they  were  crannned  into  drawers,  anyhow,  and  left 
lere,  decade  after  decade.  Ilis  sketch-books  had  rotted  to 
eces  with  the  damp,  their  pages  pressed  together  into 
ouldering  m!i.sses.  Soft  chalk  lay  loose  among  the  leaves, 
ushed  into  powder  when  the  book  was  packed  away.  He 
onomized  his  paper  by  covering  both  sides,  and  of  course 
d  not  trouble  to  'fix'  his  sketches,  still  less  to  mount  and 
ame  them,  as  the  proud  amateur  is  careful  to  do. 

Among  the  quantities  so  recklessly  thrown  aside  for  dust, 
imp,  soot,  mice  and  worms  to  destroy — some  15,000  Mr. 
uskin  reckoned  at  first,  19,000  later  on — there  were  many 
le  drawings,  which  had  been  used  by  the  engravers,  and  va.st 
jmbers  of  interesting  and  valuable  studies  in  colour  and  in 
:ncil.  Four  hundre<l  of  these  were  extricated  from  the 
iao.s,  and  with  infinite  pains  cleaned,  flattened,  mounted, 
iteil  and  descrilied,  and  placed  in  sliding  frames  in  cabinets 
jvi.sed  by  Mr.  lluskin,  or  else  in  swivel  frames,  to  let  both 
ties  of  the  pajwr  Ikj  seen.  The  first  results  of  the  work 
ere  shown  in  an  Exhibition  at  Marlborough  Ilou.se  during 
le  winter,  for  which  Mr.  lluskin  wrote  another  Ciitalogue. 
f  the  whole  collection  he  began  a  more  complete  account, 
hich  was  too  elaborate  to  be  finished  in  that  form  ;  but  in 
Wl  he  publishc<l  a  '  Catalogue  of  the  Drawings  and  Sketches 
f  J.  M.  W.  Turner,  II. A.,  at  pre.sent  exhil)itcd  in  the 
ational  Gallery,'  so  that  his  plan  was  practically  fulfilled. 

The  collection — a  monument  of  one  great  mans  genius  and 
lothcr's  patience — is  still  housed  downstairs  at  Trafalgar 
juare,  and  it  lia-s  never  been  so  honourably  viewed  and  so 
e»;ly  used  asi  Mr.   Uuskin  once  hoped.     But  in  proportion 


176        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

to  the  means  at  the  disposal  of  the  powers  that  be,  Turner 
is  well  treated.  The  sketches  can  at  least  be  got  at  by  those 
who  know  about  them  and  care  to  study  them,  and  nianj 
of  the  pictures  are  now  better  shown  than  formerly.  The 
historical  arrangement  of  the  various  schools,  also,  has  hef;n 
improved  with  every  successive  rehanging;  and  the  primitire 
masters,  once  neglected,  have  now  almost  the  lion's  share  of 
the  show.     Such  are  Time's  revenges. 

During  1858  Mv.  Ruskin  continued  to  lecture  at  various 
places  on  subjects  connected  with  his  IVIanchester  addresses, — 
the  relation  of  art  to  manufacture,  and  especially  the  de- 
pendence of  all  great  architectural  design  upon  sculptme  or 
painting  of  organic  form.  The  first  of  the  series  was  given 
at  the  opening  of  the  South  Kensington  IMuseum,  January 
12th,  1858,  entitled  'The  Deteriorative  Power  of  Con- 
ventional Art  over  Nations ' ;  in  which  he  showed  that 
natui-alism,  as  opposed  to  meaningless  pattern-making,  was 
always  a  sign  of  life.  For  example,  the  strength  of  the  Greek, 
Florentine  and  Venetian  art  arose  out  of  the  search  for  truth, 
not,  as  it  is  often  supposed,  out  of  striving  after  an  ideal  of 
beauty  ;  and  as  soon  as  nature  was  superseded  bv  recipe,  the 
greatest  schools  hastened  to  their  fall.  From  which  he  con- 
cluded that  modern  design  should  always  be  founded  on 
natural  form,  rather  than  upon  the  traditional  patterns  of 
the  east  or  of  the  mediaevals. 

On  February  16th  he  spoke  on  'The  Work  of  Iron,  in 
Nature,  Art  and  Policy,'  at  Tunbridge  'Wells;  a  subject 
similar  to  that  of  his  address  to  the  St.  Martin's  School  of 
the  year  before,  but  amjilified  into  a  plea  for  the  use  of 
wrought-iron  ornament,  as  in  the  new  Oxford  Museum,  then 
building. 

The  Oxford  Museum  was  an  experiment  in  the  true  Gothic 
revival.  There  had  been  plenty  of  so-called  Gothic  archi- 
tecture ever  since  Horace  AValpole  ;  but  it  had  aimed  rather 
at  imitating  the  forms  of  the  Middle  Ages  than  at  reviving 
the  spirit.  The  architects  at  Oxford,  Sir  Thomas  Deaue  and 
Mr.  Woodward,  had  allowed  their  workmen  to  design  parts 


•THE  POLITICAL  ECONOMY  OF  ART'      177 

of  the  detail,  such  as  capitals  and  spandrils,  quite  in  tli? 
spirit  of  Mr.  Iluskiii's  tcucliin^,  and  tlie  work  was  accordinj^ly 
of  deep  interest  to  him.  So  far  back  as  April  1856,  he  hail 
given  an  adilress  to  the  men  employed  at  the  Museum,  whom 
he  met,  on  Dr.  Aclaiul's  invitation,  at  the  \VorknuMrs  Head- 
ing Rooms.  lie  said  that  his  object  was  not  to  give  labouring 
men  the  chance  of  becoming  miusters  of  other  labouring  men, 
auvl  to  help  the  few  at  the  expense  of  the  many,  but  to  lead 
them  to  tho.se  sources  of  pleasure,  and  power  over  their  own 
niiiuls  and  hands,  that  more  educated  peo|)le  possess.  He 
did  not  sympathize  with  the  socialism  that  liad  been  creeping 
into  vogue  since  1818.  He  thought  existing  social  arrange- 
ments good,  and  he  agrceil  with  his  friends,  the  Carlyles,  who 
had  found  that  it  was  only  the  incapable  who  could  not  get 
work.  But  it  was  the  fault  of  the  wealthy  dnd  educated  that 
working  people  were  not  better  trained  ;  it  was  not  the  work- 
ing-men's fault,  at  bottom.  The  modem  architect  usetl  his 
workman  as  a  mere  tool ;  while  the  Gothic  spirit  set  him  free 
US  an  original  designer,  to  gain — not  more  wages  and  higher 
social  rank,  but  pleasure  and  instruction,  the  true  happiness 
that  lies  in  good  work  well  done. 

That  was  his  view  in  those  times.  Tlie  Oxford  Museum 
prospered,  and  Dr.  Acland  and  he  together  wrote  a  small 
book,  reporting  its  aims  and  progress  in  1858  and  1859, 
illustrated  with  an  engraving  of  one  of  the  workmen's 
ca|)itals.  It  was  no  secret,  then,  that  the  Museum  was  an 
experiment ;  and,  like  all  experiments,  it  left  much  to  be 
desiretl ;  but  it  paved  the  way,  on  the  one  hand,  to  the 
general  ado|)tion  of  Gothic  for  ilomcstic  purposes,  and  on  the 
other,  to  the  recognition  of  a  new  class  of  men  —  the  art- 
craftsmen. 

Parallel  with  tliin  movement  for  educating  the  'working- 
cla.ss'  there  was  the  scheme  for  the  imj)rovemcnt  of  middle- 
rhiss  education,  which  was  then  going  on  at  Oxford — the 
beginning  cI  University  Extension — suppoited  by  the  Ilev. 
F.  Temple  (Archbishop  of  Canterbury),  and  Air.  (aften-- 
wards  Sir)  Thomaa  Dyke  Acland.  Mr.  lluskin  was  heartily 
1:; 


178        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

for  them ;  and  in  a  letter  on  the  subject,  he  tried  to  show 
how  the  teachinii  of  Art  might  be  made  to  work  in  with  the 
scheme.  He  did  not  think  that  in  this  plan,  any  more  than 
at  the  ^Vorking  Men's  College,  there  need  be  an  attempt  to 
teach  drawing  with  a  view  to  forming  artists  ;  but  there  were 
three  objects  they  might  hold  in  view :  the  first,  to  give  every 
student  the  advantage  of  the  happiness  and  knowledge  which 
the  study  of  Ai-t  conveys ;  the  next,  to  enforce  some  know- 
ledge of  Art  amongst  those  who  were  likely  to  become 
patrons  or  critics ;  and  the  last,  to  leave  no  Giotto  lost  among 
hill  shepherds.  The  study  of  art-history  he  considered  un- 
necessary to  ordinary  education,  and  too  wide  a  subject  to  be 
treated  in  the  usual  curriculum  of  schools ;  but  the  practice 
of  drawing  might  go  hand  in  hand  with  natural  history,  and 
the  habit  of  looking  at  things  with  an  artist's  eye  would  be 
invaluable.  He  proposed  a  plan  of  studies,  interweaving  the 
art-lessons  with  every  other  department,  instead  of  relegating 
them  to  a  poor  hour  a  week  of  idling  or  insubordination 
under  a  master  who  ranked  with  the  drill-sergeant.  Some- 
thing has  been  done,  both  by  the  delegates  for  local  examina- 
tions (whom  this  movement  created)  and  by  the  schools 
themselves,  to  improve  the  teaching  of  drawing  ;  but  nothing 
like  jVIr.  Ruskin's  proposal  has  been  attempted — simply 
because  it  would  involve  the  employment  of  schoolmasters 
who  could  draw  ;  and  the  introduction  of  the  object-lesson 
system  into  the  higher  forms. 

This  intercom-se  with  Oxford  and  willingness  to  help, 
even  at  the  lower  end  of  the  ladder,  is  a  pleasant  episode 
in  the  life  of  a  man  struggling  in  the  wider  world  against 
Academicism  and  the  various  fallacies  of  traditional  creeds 
and  cultures.  That  liis  work  had  won  him  a  high  place  in 
the  esteem  of  his  college,  is  shown  by  their  giving  him  the 
highest  honour  in  their  power.  In  1858  '  Honorary  Student- 
ships' were  created  at  Christ  Church  by  the  Commissioners' 
ordinances.  At  the  first  election  ever  held,  Dec.  6,  1858, 
there  were  chosen  for  the  compliment  iVIr.  Ruskin,  Mr.  Glad- 


'THE  POLITICAL  ECONOMY  OF  ART'      179 

one.  Sir  G.  Coincwall  Lewis,  Dr.  (Sir)  II.  W.  Acliind, 
id  Sir  F.  II.  Gore  Ousdcy.  At  the  second,  Dec.  15,  1858, 
ere  elected  Henry  Hallani,  the  Earl  of  Stanhope,  the  Earl 
f  EIj!;in,  the  Marquis  of  Dalhousie  and  ^'iscount  Canning.* 
Xoscilur,''  it  is  said,  '  a  soc'iis.^ 

*  From  the  Miuute-Book,  found  and  kindly  comaiuuicated  bjr  Uie 
ev.  £.  Ik  S.%m{nju,  censor  of  Cbrist  Cburck 


'       ' 


CHAPTER  X. 

tie  I 
•MODERN  PAINTERS'  CONCLUDED.     (1858-1860.)  ]^„ 

'The  best  in  this  kind  are  but  shadows.'  ""'' 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream.  M 

OXFORD  and  old  friends  did  not  monopolise  Mr.  Ruskin''s  (lev 
attention  :  he  was  soon  seen  at  Cambridge — on  the 
same  platform  with  Mr.  Richard  Redgrave,  R.A.,  the 
representative  of  Academicism  and  ofTicialism — at  the  opening 
of  the  School  of  Art  for  workmen  on  October  SDth,  1858. 
His  Inaugural  Address  struck  a  deeper  note,  a  wider  chord, 
than  previous  essays ;  it  was  the  forecast  of  the  last  volume 
of  '  Modern  Painters,'  and  it  sketched  the  train  of  thought 
into  which  he  had  been  led  during  his  tour  abroad,  that 
summer. 

The  battles  between  faith  and  criticism,  between  the 
historical  and  the  scientific  attitudes,  which  had  been  going 
on  in  his  mind,  were  taking  a  new  foim.  At  the  outset,  we 
saw,  naturalism  overpowered  respect  for  tradition — in  the 
first  volume  of  '  Modern  Painters ';  then  the  historical 
tendency  won  the  day,  in  the  second  volume.  Since  that 
time,  the  critical  side  had  been  gathering  strength,  by  his 
alliance  with  liberal  movements  and  by  his  gradual  detach- 
ment from  associations  that  held  him  to  the  older  order  ' 
of  thought.  And  just  as  in  his  lonely  journey  of  1845  he 
first  took  independent  ground  upon  questions  of  religion  and 
social  life,  so  in  1858,  once  more  travelling  alone,  he  was  led  . 
by  his  meditations, — freed  from  the  restraining  presence  of      | 


'MODERN  PAINTERS'  CONCLUDED         181 

his  parents, — to  conclusions  which  he  had  hcen  all  these 
yeai-s  evadinfj,  yet  finding  at  last  inevitable. 

He  went  abroad  for  a  third  attempt  to  write  and  illustrate 
his  History  of  Swiss  Towns.  The  drawings  of  the  year 
were  still  in  the  style  of  fine  pen-etching  combined  with 
broadly  gradated  and  harmonious  tints  of  colour;  or,  when 
they  were  simj)ly  pen  or  pencil  outlines,  they  were  much 
more  ivfined  than  those  of  ten  years  earlier.  He  spent  May 
on  the  Upper  Rhine  between  Basle  and  Schafl'hausen.  June  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  Swis.s  Baden,  July  at  Bellinzona. 
In  reflecting  over  the  sources  of  Swiss  character,  as  connected 
with  the  cpicstion  of  the  nature  and  origin  of  art  in  morality, 
lie  was  struck  with  the  fact  that  all  the  virtues  of  the  Swiss 
did  not  make  tliini  artistic.  Compared  with  most  nations 
they  were  as  children  in  painting,  music  and  poetry.  And, 
indeed,  they  ranked  with  the  early  phases  of  many  great 
nations — the  period  of  pristine  sini[)licity  'uncorruptcd  by 
the  arts.' 

From  Bellinzona  he  went  to  Turin  on  his  way  to  the 
Vauilois  'Valley.s,  where  he  meant  to  compare  the  Waldcn- 
sian  Protestants  with  the  Swiss.  Accidentally  he  saw  Paul 
Veronese's  'Queen  of  Sheba'  and  other  Venetian  pictures; 
and  so  fell  to  comparing  a  period  of  fully  ripened  art  with 
one  of  artlessncss;  discovering  that  the  mature  art,  while  it 
appeared  at  the  same  time  with  decay  in  morals,  did  not 
spring  from  that  decay,  but  was  rooted  in  the  virtues  of 
the  earlier  age.  He  grasped  a  clue  to  the  pu/zle,  in  the 
generalisiitiou  that  Art  is  the  product  of  human  happiness; 
it  is  contrary  to  asceticism  ;  it  is  the  expression  of  ])le;i.surc. 
But  when  the  turning  point  of  national  progress  is  once 
re.iched,  and  art  is  regarded  as  the  laborious  incitement  to 
pleasure, — no  longer  the  spontaneous  blossom  and  fruit  of  it, 
— the  decay  sets  in  for  art  as  for  morality.  Ait,  in  short,  is 
crcaleil  by  pleasure,  i\ot  Jur  pleasure. 

And  so  both  the  ascetics  who  refuse  art  are  wrong,  and 
the  Epicureans  who  make  it  a  means  of  pleasure-seeking;  the 
latter  obvii>usly   and   culpably,  because   in   their   hands   it 


182        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

becomes  rapidly  degraded  into  a  mere  sensational  or  sensual 
Btimulus,  and  loses  its  own  finest  qualities— technically  as 
well  as  morally.  But  the  ascetics  are  wrong,  too ;  because 
we  cannot  jilace  ourselves  at  the  fountain  head  again,  and 
resume  the  pristine  simplicity  of  nascent  society.  Such  was 
the  claim  of  the  Modern  Vaudois  whom  he  had  gone  forth  to 
bless  as  descendants  of  those  '  slaughtered  saints  whose  bones 
lay  scattered  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold.'  He  found 
them  keeping  but  the  relics  and  grave  clothes  of  a  pure  faith  ; 
and  that  at  the  cost  of  abstention  from  all  service  to  the 
struggling  Italy  of  their  time, — at  the  cost,  too,  of  a  flat 
refusal  to  reverence  the  best  achievements  of  the  past.  No 
doubt  there  were  exemplary  persons  among  them  ;  but  the 
standard  of  thought,  the  attitude  of  mind,  of  the  Walden- 
sians,  Mr.  Ruskin  now  perceived  to  be  quite  impossible  for 
himself.  He  could  not  look  upon  every  one  outside  their 
fold  as  heathens  and  publicans ;  he  could  not  believe  that  the 
pictures  of  Paul  Veronese  were  works  of  iniquity,  nor  that 
the  motives  of  great  deeds  in  earlier  ages  were  lying  super- 
stitions. He  took  courage  to  own  to  himself  and  otliers  that 
it  was  no  longer  any  use  trying  to  identify  his  point  of  view 
with  that  of  Protestantism.  He  saw  both  Protestants  and 
Roman  Catholics,  in  the  perspective  of  history,  converging 
into  a  primitive,  far  distant,  ideal  unity  of  Christianity,  in 
which  he  still  believed ;  but  he  could  take  neither  side,  after 
this. 

The  first  statement  of  the  new  poiijt  of  view  was,  as  we 
sail!,  the  Inaugural  Lecture  of  the  Cambridge  School  of  Art. 
The  next  important  utterance  was  at  Manchester,  Feb.  22nd, 
1S59,  where  he  spoke  on  the  '  Unity  of  Ai-t,'  by  which  he 
meant — not  the  fraternity  of  handicrafts  with  painting,  as 
the  term  is  used  nowadays — but  that,  in  whatever  branch  of 
Art,  the  spirit  of  Truth  or  Sincerity  is  the  same.  In  this 
lecture  there  is  a  very  important  passage  showing  how  he 
had  at  last  got  upon  firm  ground  in  the  question  of  art  and 
morality : — '  /  do  not  say  in  tlie  least  that  in  order  to  be  a 
gvod  painter  you  must  be  a  good  man ;  but  I  do  say  that 


•MODERN  TAINTERS'  CONCLUDED  183 

n  order  to  be  a  jjooil  iintunil  painter  there  must  be  stronj^ 
ileiDents  of  good  in  tiie  niiiul,  liowever  warped  by  other  parts 
>f  tlie  chanuter.'  So  emphatic  a  statement  deserves  more 
ittention  than  it  has  reeeivitl  from  readers  and  writei-s  who 
issume  to  judge  Mr.  Rusivin's  views  after  n  sligiit  ac(|uaiiit- 
ince  with  his  earher  worivs.  lie  was  well  avrare  himself  tliat 
lis  mind  had  been  gradually  enlarging,  and  his  thoughts 
changing;  and  he  soon  saw  as  givat  a  difference  between 
limself  at  forty  anil  at  twenty-five,  as  lie  had  formerly  seen 
)ctween  the  Boy  poet  and  the  Art  critic.  He  became  as 
mxious  to  forget  his  earlier  great  books,  as  he  had  been  to 
orget  his  vei-se-writing ;  and  when  he  came  to  collect  his 
Works,'  these  lectures,  under  the  title  of 'The  Two  Paths,' 
vere  (with  'The  Political  Economy  of  Art')  the  earliest 
idmittwl  into  the  library. 

After  this  Manchester  lecture  he  took  a  driving  tour  in 
Yorkshire — posting  in  the  old-fiushioned  way — halting  at 
Bradford  for  the  lecture  on  '  Modern  Manufacture  and 
design'  (March  1)  and  ending  with  a  visit  to  the  school  at 
A'innington,  of  which  more  in  a  later  chapter. 

In  IS.jO  the  last  Academy  Notes,  for  the  time  being, 
vere  published.  The  Pre-Raphaelite  cause  had  been  fully 
uccesstul,  and  the  new  school  of  naturalist  lanilscape  was 
apidly  asserting  itself  (Jlil  friends  were  failing,  such  as 
>tan(ielil,  Lewis,  and  Rol)crts:  but  new  men  were  growing 
ip,  among  whom  Mr.  Ruskin  welcomed  G.  D.  Leslie, 
?.  Gootlall,  J.  C.  Hook, — who  had  come  out  of  his  '  Pre- 
taphaelite  measles'  into  the  healthy  naturalism  of  '  LulF 
Joy!' — Clarence  Whaite,  Henry  Holiday,  and  John  Brett, 
y\\o  .showetl  the  'Val  dAosta.'  Mr.  Millais'  '  Vale  of  Rest' 
vas  the  picture  which  attracted  most  notice :  something  of 
he  old  rancour  against  the  .school  wius  revived  in  the  Montiii"- 
herald,  which  called  his  works  'im|)ertinences,'  'contemptible,' 
indelible  disgrace,'  and  so  on.  It  was  the  beginning  of  a 
ininsition  from  the  delicacy  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite  Millais  to 
lis  later  style;  and  as  such  the  preacher  of  'All  great  art  is 
lelicate'  could  not  entirely  defend  it.    But  the  serious  strength 


184        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

of  the  imaj^ination  and  the  power  of  the  execution  he  praised 
with  unexpected  warnitli. 

He  then'  started  on  the  last  tour  ahroad  with  his  parents. 
He  had  been  asked,  rather  pointedly,  by  the  National  Gallery 
Conniiission,  whether  he  had  seen  the  great  German  museums, 
and  had  been  obliged  to  rejily  that  he  had  not.  Perhaps  it 
occurred  to  him  or  to  his  father  that  he  ought  to  see  the 
pictures  at  Berlin  and  Dresden  and  Munich,  even  though  he 
heartily  disliked  the  Germans  with  their  art  and  their  language 
and  everything  that  belonged  to  them, — except  Holbein  and 
Diirer.  By  the  end  of  July  the  travellers  were  in  North 
Switzerland ;  and  they  spent  September  in  Savoy,  returning 
home  by  October  7th. 

Old  Rlr.  Kuskin  was  now  in  his  seventy-fifth  year;  and  his 
desire  was  to  see  the  great  work  finished  before  he  died. 
There  had  been  some  attempt  to  write  this  last  volume  of 
'Modern  Painters'  in  the  previous  winter,  but  it  had  been 
put  off  until  after  the  visit  to  Germany  had  completed 
Air.  Ruskin's  study  of  the  great  Venetian  painters — especially 
Titian  and  Veronese.  Now  at  last,  in  the  autumn  of  1859, 
he  finally  set  to  work  on  the  writing. 

He  had  to  do  for  Vegetation,  Clouds,  and  Water,  what 
Vol.  IV.  had  done  for  Mountains  :  and  also  to  treat  of  the 
laws  of  Composition.  To  do  this  on  a  scale  corresponding 
with  his  foregoing  work,  would  have  needed  four  or  five  more 
volumes.  As  it  was,  the  author  dropped  the  section  on 
Water,  with  promises  of  a  book  which  he  never  wrote,  and 
the  rest  was  only  sketched — somewhat  ampler  in  detail  than 
corresponding  parts  of  the  '  Elements  of  Drawing,'  but  still 
inade(|uately  and  half-heartedly,  as  an  artist  would  coni- 
jilete  a  work  when  the  patron  who  commissioned  it  had  died. 

The  whole  book  had  been  simply  the  assertion  of  Turner's 
genius — plucky  and  necessary  in  the  young  man  of  1843,  but 
Buperfluous  in  1860,  when  his  main  thesis  was  admitted,  and 
his  own  interests,  as  well  as  the  needs  of  a  totally  different 
period,  had  drifted  far  away  from  the  original  subject. 
Turner  was  long  since  dead  ;  his  fame  thoroughly  vindicated ; 


•MODERN  PAINTERS'  CONCLUDED         185 

Kis  bequest  to  the  nation  dealt  with,  so  far  as  possible.  Hie 
Larly  Christian  Art  was  recognisetl — almost  beyond  its 
;lainis;  for  An^elieo  and  his  circle,  great  as  they  were  in 
their  age,  had  begun  to  lead  nunlcrn  religious  painters  into 
tdectation.  The  rre-Ra|)liaeIites  and  naturalistic  land- 
icapists  no  longer  needed  the  hand  which  'Modern  raintcrs' 
liail  held  out  to  them  by  the  way.  Of  the  great  triad  of 
Venice,  Tintoret  had  been  expounded,  \'eronese  anil  Titian 
ivere  now  taken  up  and  tieated  with  tardy,  but  ample 
recognition. 

And  now,  after  twenty  years  of  labour,  Mr.  Ruskin  had 
jstablished  himself  as  the  recognised  leader  of  criticism  ami 
the  exponent  of  painting  and  architecture.  He  hatl  created 
%  department  of  literature  all  his  ovn\,  and  adorned  it  with 
works  of  which  the  like  had  never  been  seen.  He  had 
snricheil  the  art  of  England  with  examples  of  a  new  and 
beautiful  draughtsmanshiii,  and  the  language  with  passages 
3f  poetic  description  and  elo(iuent  declamation,  quite,  in 
their  way,  unrivalled.  As  a  ])hilosopher  he  had  built  up  a 
theory  of  art,  as  yet  uncontested;  and  had  treated  both  its 
abstract  nature  and  its  relations  to  human  conduct  and 
policy.  As  a  historian,  he  had  thrown  new  light  on  the 
Middle  Ages  and  Renaissance,  illustrating,  in  a  way  then 
novel,  their  chronicles  by  their  remains.  He  had  beaten 
jown  op|)osition,  risen  above  detraction,  and  won  the  prize 
Df  iionour — only  to  realise,  as  he  received  it,  that  the  fight 
bad  been  but  a  pastime  tournament,  after  all ;  and  to  hear, 
through  the  applause,  the  enemy's  trum|H.'t  sounding  to 
battle.  For  now,  witliout  the  camp,  there  were  realities  to 
face :  aa  to  All — '  the  best  in  this  kind  are  but  shadowa,' 


BOOK  III. 

HERMIT  AND  HERETIC.    (1860-1870.) 

'  Htiah  I  yon  must  not  speak  about  it  yet,  but  I  have  made  a  great 
iiscovcry.  The  fact  is  that  the  strongest  man  upon  earth  is  he  who 
stands  most  alone.'— Issbn's  Enemy  of  Society. 


CnAFTER  L 

•UXTO  THIS  LAST.'    (1800-1861.) 

'He  was  forty  before  he  talked  of  any  mission  from  Heaven.' — Tht 
Bero  at  Proj^het. 

'  In  this  way  he  has  lived  till  past  forty  ;  old  age  is  now  in  view  of 
him,  and  the  earnest  portal  of  death  and  eternity.'— TAe  Hero  as  King. 

Carlyle. 

AT   forty  years   of    a<»e  Mr.   Ruskin   finished  'Modem 
Paintci-s,'  and  concluded  the  whole  cycle  of  work  by 
whicli   he   is   j)opiilarlv    known   as   a  wiitcr  on  art. 
From  that  time  art  was  sometimes  liis  text,  rarely  his  theme. 
He  used  it  as  the  opportunity,  the  vehicle,  so  to  say,  for 
teachinj;s  of  far  wider  range  and  deeper  import;    teachings 
about  life  as  a  whole,  conclusions  in  ethics  and  economics 
and  religion,  to  which  he  sought  to  lead  others,  as  he  was 
led,  by  tlie  way  of  art.     And   in  this  later  period,  when  he 
>|u)ke  of  art   in  especial,  the  greater  range  of  his  inciuiry 
ii.it iirally  modified  his  aim  and  stand|)oint;  just  as,  in  a  vast 
wall-painting,  the  detail  is  viewetl  and  treated  otherwise  than 
when   it    formed    the   subject   of  separate   still-life   studies. 
>(iine  observers  prefer  the  still-life;   antl  indeed  it  may  be 
!  work.     But  the  broad  treatment  is  the  greater. 
h   wc  want  to  understand   Mr.  lUiskin,  there  is  only  one 
of  stiuhing  him;   and  that  is  to  trace  from  point  to 
t    the   growth    of  his  mind.     Now  all    those    books, — . 
;   .km  Painters,'  'Stones  of   Venice,'  'Seven  Lamps,'  the 
tarlier  Lectures  anil  Letters  on  Art, — are  works  of  a  young 
man,  uot  yet  forty ;  tliat  is  to  say,  before  the  age  at  which 


190        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

most  great  authors,  painters,  and  thinkers  have  done  their 
best.  They  contain  much  that  is  valuable  and  much  that  is 
characteristic ;  but  they  are  only  the  forecourt,  not  the 
presence-chamber.  They  lead  to  his  final  conclusions,  but 
they  do  not  express  them.  What  the  juvenile  poems  are  to 
these  works,  they  are  to  the  later  works, — seedlinn;s  and 
saplings,  so  like  and  so  unlike  the  full-grown  plant.  It  is  no 
use  quarrelling  with  the  author  for  not  composing  a  con- 
sistent explanation  of  his  views :  though  it  would  have  been 
convenient  for  students ;  who  might  as  well  wish  that  Plato 
had  left  them  a  handbook  of  his  philosophy,  or  that  Shakspere 
had  appended  notes  to  '  Hamlet.' 

During  the  time  when  he  was  preaching  his  later  doctrines, 
Rlr.  Ruskin  wished  to  suppress  the  interfering  evidences  of 
the  earlier;  not  so  much  because  they  contained  mistaken 
estimates  and  misleading  statements,  as  because  they  betrayed 
a  tone  of  thought  which  differed  from  the  tone  of  his  later 
period  as  much  as  a  stained  window  differs  from  a  Tintoret. 
He  let  his  works  on  art  run  out  of  print,  not  for  the  benefit 
of  second-hand  booksellers,  but  in  the  hope  that  he  could  fix 
his  audience  upon  the  burden  of  his  prophecy  for  the  time 
being.  But  the  youthful  works  were  still  read ;  high  prices 
were  paid  for  them,  or  they  were  smuggled  in  from  America. 
And  when  the  epoch  of  '  Fors  "■  had  passed,  he  agreed  to  the 
reprinting  of  all  that  early  material.  He  called  it  obsolete 
and  trivial ;  others  find  it  interestingly  biographical — perhaps 
even  classical. 

But  when  we  read  articles  professing  to  analyse  his  life- 
work,  and  find  that  they  estimate  his  art-theory  from  a  few 
passages  in  '  Modern  Painters '  I.  and  II.,  obviously  immature  ; 
when,  on  the  other  hand,  magazine-writers  criticise,  as  axioms 
of  his  social  science,  without  tracing  their  origin  and  import, 
the  winged  words  with  which  he  tried,  in  his  failing  powers 
and  forlorn  hopes,  to  arouse  the  dull  conscience  of  a  Philistine 
public;  when  men  of  a  different  genei-ation,  an  alien  race,  of 
traditions  dissimilar  and  irreconcilable  temperament,  hastily 
■ample  his  paragraphs  as  customs-officers  gauge  a  cargo ;  we 


•UNTO  THIS  LAST'  191 

him  at  last  to  the  liistorioil  niethoil,  and  ask  whether  these 
tilings  should  be  so.  And  as  a  geolojjist,  puzzled  at  some 
invei-sioii  of  strata.  Nature's  paradox,  yet,  on  aeeurately  plot- 
ting it  out  upon  his  map  or  niotlel,  sees  the  fitness  and 
neeessity  of  the  phenomenon ;  so,  with  the  biographical 
scheme  understood,  the  discrepancies  and  didicultics  of 
Uuskin  fall  into  their  ])liue  anil  explain  theniselves.  He  at 
last  stantls  revealeil,  and  then  can  be  a|}preciated,  as  we 
appreciate  any  other  thinking,  growing  man, — say  Plato, 
Titian,  (ioethe, — who  has  let"t  a  long  life's  work  behind  him. 

This  year,  then,  ISGO,  the  year  of  the  Italian  Kingdom,  of 
Garibaldi,  anil  of  the  beginning  of  the  American  war,  marks 
his  turning  point,  from  the  early  work,  sunnned  up  in  the 
old  'Selections,'  to  the  later  work,  wliich  no  one  has  yet 
thoroughly  examine*!  in  print. 

I'ntil  he  was  forty,  Mr.  Uuskin  was  a  writer  on  art;  after 
that  his  art  wjis  secondary  to  ethics.  Until  he  was  forty  he 
was  a  iK'liever  in  English  Protestantism  ;  afterwards  he  could 
not  reconcile  curix-nt  beliefs  with  the  facts  of  life  as  he  saw 
them,  and  had  to  reconstruct  his  creed  from  the  foundations. 
Until  he  was  forty  he  was  a  jihilanthropist,  working  heartily 
with  others  in  a  definite  cause,  and  hoping  for  the  amend- 
ment of  wrongs,  without  a  social  upheaval.  Even  in  tht- 
Ix'ginning  of  1H60,  in  his  evidence  before  the  House  of 
Connnons  Select  Connnittee  on  Public  Institutions,  he  was 
reaily  with  plans  for  amusing  and  instructing  the  labouring 
classes,  and  noting  in  them  a  'thirsty  desire'  for  iniprove- 
mcnt.  Hut  while  his  readiness  to  make  anv  personal  sacrifice, 
in  the  way  of  social  and  philanthropic  experiment,  and  his 
interest  in  the  (piestion  werc  increasing,  he  became  less  and 
less  sanguine  about  the  value  of  such  efforts  as  the  Working 
Men's  Colle.;e,  and  less  and  less  ready  to  co-operate  with 
others  in  their  schemes.  He  began  to  sec  that  no  tinkering 
at  social  breakages  was  really  worth  while;  that  far  more 
extensive  repairs  were  ntcdeil  to  make  the  old  ship  sea- 
worthy. 

So  he  set  himself,  by  himself,  to  sketch  the  plans  for  the 


192        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

repairs.  Naturally  sociable,  and  accustomed  to  the  friendly 
give-and-take  of  a  wide  acquaintance,  he  withdrew  from  the 
busy  world  into  a  busier  solitude.  During  the  next  few 
years  he  lived  much  alone  among  the  Alps,  or  at  home, 
thinking  out  the  problem ;  sometimes  feeling,  far  more 
acutely  than  was  good  for  clear  thought,  the  burden  of  the 
mission  that  was  laid  upon  him.  In  INlarch  18G3  he  wrote 
from  his  retreat  at  IVIornex  to  IMr.  Norton  : — '  The  loneliness 
is  very  great,  and  the  peace  in  which  I  am  at  present  is  only 
as  if  I  had  buried  myself  in  a  tuft  of  gi-ass  on  a  battlefield 
wet  with  blood — for  the  cry  of  the  earth  about  me  is  in  my 
ears  continually,  if  I  do  not  lay  my  head  to  the  very  gi-ound.' 
And,  a  few  months  later: — 'I  am  still  very  imwell,  and 
tormented  between  the  longing  for  rest  and  lovely  life,  and 
the  sense  of  this  terrific  call  of  human  crime  for  resistance 
and  of  human  misery  for  help,  though  it  seems  to  me  as  the 
voice  of  a  river  of  blood  which  can  but  sweep  me  down  in 
the  midst  of  its  black  clots,  helpless.' 

Sentences  like  these,  passages  here  and  there  in  the  last 
volume  of  '  IModern  Painters,"  and  still  more,  certain  passages 
omitt'»d  from  that  volume,  show  that  about  18G0  something 
oi  a  cloud  had  been  settling  over  him, — a  sense  of  the  evil  of 
the  world,  a  horror  of  great  darkness.  In  his  earlier  yeai-s, 
his  intense  emotion  and  vivid  imagination  had  enabled  him 
to  read  into  pictures  of  Tintoret  or  Turner,  into  scenes  of" 
nature  and  sayings  of  great  books,  a  meaning  or  a  moral 
which  he  so  vividly  communicated  to  the  reader  as  to  make 
it  thenceforward  part  and  parcel  of  the  subject,  however  it 
came  there  to  begin  with.  It  is  useless  to  wonder  whether 
Turner,  for  instance,  consciously  meant  what  Ruskin  found 
in  his  works.  A  gi-eat  painter  does  not  paint  without 
thought,  and  such  thought  is  apt  to  show  itself  whether  he 
will  or  no.  But  it  needs  a  powerful  sympathy  to  detect  and 
describe  the  thought.  And  when  that  powerful  iympathy 
was  given  to  suffering,  to  wide-spread  misery,  to  crying 
wrongs;  joined  also  with  an  intense  passion  for  justice,  which 
had  alreaJdy  shown  itself  in  the  defence  of  slighted  genius  and 


•UNTO  THIS  LAST'  193 

neijluctcfl  nrt ;  nnd  to  the  Celtic  teniperamcnt  of  some  liiQ;h- 
struni;  si-er  hiul  tnince-prophcsying  bard  ;  it  was  no  wonder 
tliat  Mr.  Iluskin  became  like  one  of  the  hermits  of  old,  who 
retreated  from  the  world  to  return  upon  it  with  stormy 
nicssaiji's  of  awakening  and  flashes  of  truth  more  impressive, 
more  illuminating  than  the  logic  of  schoolmen  and  the  state- 
craft of  the  w  ise. 

And  then  he  began  to  take  up  an  attitude  of  antagonism 
to  the  world,  he  who  had  been  the  kindly  helper  and  minister 
of  delightful  art.  He  began  to  call  upon  those  who  had  ears 
to  hear  to  come  out  anil  be  separate  from  the  ease  and 
hypocrisy  of  N'anity  Fair.  Its  respectabilities,  its  orthodoxies, 
he  co'dd  no  longer  abide.  Orthodox  religion,  orthodox 
morals  and  politics,  orthodox  art  and  science,  alike  he 
rejected ;  and  was  rejected  by  each  of  them  as  a  brawler,  a 
biibbler,  a  fanatic,  a  heretic.  Anil  even  when  kindly  Oxford 
gave  him  a  quasi-academical  position,  it  did  not  bring  him, 
as  it  brings  many  a  heretic,  back  to  the  fold. 

In  this  period  of  storm  and  stix'ss  he  stood  alone.  The  old 
friends  of  his  youth  were  one  by  one  j)a.ssing  away,  if  not  from 
intercoui-se,  still  from  full  sympathy  with  him  in  his  new 
mood.  Ilis  parents  were  no  longer  the  guides  and  com- 
panions thev  had  been  ;  thev  did  not  undei-stand  the  business 
he  was  about.  And  so  he  was  left  to  new  associates,  for  he 
could  not  live  without  some  one  to  love, — that  is  the  nature 
of  the  man,  however  lonely  in  his  work  and  wanderings. 

The  new  friends  of  this  period  were,  at  first,  Americnns; 
as  the  chief  new  friends  of  his  latest  [)eriod  (the  Alexandei-s) 
were  American,  too.  Mr.  Charles  Kliot  Norton,  after  being 
introduced  to  him  in  I>ondon,  met  him  again  by  acciil  nt  on 
the  Ijikc  of  (iLueva — the  story  is  prettily  told  in  '  I'riclerita,' 
Anil  ^(r.  Iluskin  adil-s  'Norton  saw  all  my  weaknesses, 
mcasiiretl  all  my  narrownesses,  and,  from  the  first,  took 
seii-nely,  anil  as  it  seemed  of  necessitv,  a  kind  of  |>aternal 
authority  over  me,  and  a  right  of  guidance.  ...  I  was 
entiix'ly  consciou-s  of  his  rectorial  power,  and  afl'ei  tionntely 
nibmissive  to  it,  so  that  he  might  have  done  anything  with 
13 


194        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

me,  but  for  the  unhappy  difference  in  our  innate,  and  un- 
chan<Teal)le,  political  faitlis.'     So,  after  all,  he  stood  alone. 

Another  friend  about  this  time  was  ]\Irs.  H.  Beecher  Stowe, 
to  whom  he  wrote  on  June  18th,  1860,  from  Geneva: — 'It 
takes  a  great  deal,  when  I  am  at  Geneva,  to  make  me  wish 
myself  anywhere  else,  and,  of  all  places  else,  in  London; 
nevertheless,  I  very  heartily  wish  at  this  moment  that  I  were 
looking  out  on  the  Norwood  Hills,  and  were  expecting  you 
and  the  children  to  breakfast  to-morrow. 

'  I  had  very  serious  thoughts,  when  I  received  your  note,  of 
running  home ;  but  I  expected  that  very  day  an  Americap. 
friend,  Mr.  Stillman,  who,  I  thought,  would  miss  me  more 
here  than  you  in  London,  so  I  stayed. 

'  AVhat  a  dreadful  thing  it  is  that  people  should  have  to  go 
to  America  again,  after  coming  to  Europe  !  It  seems  to  me 
an  inversion  of  the  order  of  nature.  I  think  America  is  a 
sort  of  "  United  ■"  States  of  Probation,  out  of  which  all  wise 
people,  being  once  delivered,  and  ha\ang  obtained  entrance 
into  this  better  world,  should  never  be  expected  to  return* 
(sentence  irremediably  ungrammatical),  particularly  when  they 
have  been  making  themselves  cruelly  pleasant  to  friends  here. 
My  friend  Norton,  whom  I  met  first  on  this  verv  blue  lake 
water,  had  no  business  to  go  back  to  Boston  again,  any  more 
than  you.  .  .  . 

'  So  you  have  been  seeing  the  Pope  and  all  his  Easter  per- 
formances !  I  congratulate  you,  for  I  suppose  it  is  something 
like  "Positively  the  last  appearance  on  any  stage."  What 
was  the  use  of  thinking  about  him  ?  You  should  have  had 
your  own  thoughts  about  what  was  to  come  after  him.  I 
don't  mean  that  Roman  Catholicism  will  die  out  so  quickly. 
It  will  last  pretty  nearly  as  long  as  Protestantism,  which 
keeps  it  up  ;  but  I  wonder  what  is  to  come  nest.  That  is 
the  main  question  just  now  for  everybody." 

Mr.  Stillman  had  been  a  conespondent  about  1851, — 
'  involved  in   mystical  speculations,  partly  growing   out   of 

*  '  Good  Americans  when  thev  die  go  to  Paris.' — '  The  Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  Table,'  quoting  from  Lewia  Appleton. 


•UNTO  TfflS  LAST'  195 

Hic  second  volume  of  "  ^loilom  Painters,"'  as  he  says  of  hiin- 
jcir  in  an  artiile  on  'John  Hiiskin'  in  the  Cinliinj  Ma;ja/.ine 
(Jainiary,  188S).  lie  tells  us  that  he  wrote  to  the  author 
for  lounsel,  and  quotes  a  lonfj  letter  in  which  Mr.  Kuskin 
fidvises  '  on  no  account  to  a-jitate  nor  prieve  youreelf,  nor 
look  for  inspirations — for  as-sureilly  inanv  of  our  nohlest 
Kn^^lish  minds  have  hccii  entirely  overthrown  by  doinjj  so 
— hut  go  on  doing  what  vou  ai"e  sure  is  quite  right — that  is, 
striving  for  constant  purity  of  thought,  purpose  and  word.' 

With  Mr.  Stillnian  he  spent  July  and  August  of  1860  at 
Chamouni.  lie  did  but  little  drawing,  and  in  the  few 
sketches  that  ixmain  of  that  summer  there  is  evidence  that 
his  mind  was  far  away  from  its  old  love  of  mountains  and  of 
streamlets.  His  lonely  walks  in  the  pinewoods  of  the  Arvcron 
were  given  to  nuilitation  on  a  great  problem  which  had  been 
set,  as  it  scemoil,  for  him  to  solve,  ever  since  he  had  written 
that  chapter  on  'The  Nature  of  Gothic.'  Now  at  la-^t,  in  the 
solitude  of  the  Alps,  he  could  grapple  with  the  questions  he 
had  raised ;  and  the  outcome  of  the  struggle  was  '  Unto  this 
Last.'* 

The  year  before,  from  Tliun  and  Bonneville  and  I..ausanne 
(August  and  September  1859)  he  had  written  letters  to 
Mr.  E.  S.  Dallas,  suggestetl  by  the  strikes  in  the  London 
building  trade.  In  these  he  appears  to  have  sketched  the 
outline  of  a  new  conception  of  social  science,  which  he  was 
now  elaborating  with  more  attempt  at  system  and  brevity 
than  he  hatl  been  accustomed  to  use. 

These  new  pa|K>rs,  painfully  thought  out  and  carefully  si-t 
Jown  ii  his  room  at  the  Hotel  de  TUnion,  he  used — lus  long 
before  he  read  his  daily  chapter  to  the  breakfast  party  at 
Heme  Hill — to  read  to  Mr.  Stillman :  and  he  sent  them  to 
tlie  Curnhill  Miigaz'nie,  started  the  year  before  by  Smith  and 

•  The  title,  quaintly  but  aptly  hinting  the  gist  of  the  work,  was 
Ukeu  from  the  motto  pretixeil  to  the  collecteJ  series  : — '  Friend,  I  do 
thee  no  wrong.  Did.it  nut  thou  agree  with  me  for  a  i>euny  \  Take 
tbiit  thine  ia,  and  go  thy  way.  I  will  give  U.STO  TUia  LAST  even  aa 
unto  thee.' 
13—2 


196        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Elder.  I\Ir.  Rusl<in  had  already  contributed  to  it  a  paper  on 
'  Sir  Joshua  and  Holliein,'  a  stray  chapter  from  Vol.  V., 
'  Modern  Painters.'  His  reputation  as  a  writer  and  philan- 
thropist, together  with  the  fi-iendiincss  of  editor  and  pub- 
lisher, .secured  the  insertion  of  the  first  three, — from  Aui;ust 
to  October.  The  editor  then  wrote  to  say  that  they  were  so 
unanimously  condemned  and  disliked,  that,  with  all  apolou:ics, 
he  could  only  admit  one  more.  The  series  was  bvoui;lit 
hastily  to  a  conclusion  in  November  :  and  the  author,  beaten 
back  as  he  had  never  been  beaten  before,  dropped  the  subject, 
and  'sulked,' so  he  called  it,  all  the  winter. 

It  is  pleasant  to  notice  that  neither  Thackeray,  the  editor 
nor  Smith,  the  publisher  quaiTellcd  with  the  author  who  had 
laid  them  open  to  the  censure  of  their  public,— nor  he  with 
them.  On  December  21st,  he  wrote  to  Thackeray,  in  answer, 
apparently,  to  a  letter  about  lecturing  for  a  charitable  pur- 
pose :  and  continued  : — '  The  mode  in  which  you  direct  your 
charity  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  matter  that  has  lain  long  on  my 
mind,  though  I  never  have  had  the  time  or  face  to  talk  to 
you  of  it.  In  somebody's  drawing-room,  ages  ago,  you  were 
speaking  accidentally  of  M.  de  JMarvy.*  I  expressed  my 
great  obligation  to  him  ;  on  which  you  said  that  I  could 
prove  my  gratitude,  if  I  chose,  to  his  widow, — which  choice 
I  then  not  accepting,  have  ever  since  remembered  the  circum- 
stance as  one  peculiarly  likely  to  add,  so  far  as  it  went,  to  the 
general  impression  on  your  mind  of  the  hollowncss  of  people's 
sayings  and  hardness  of  their  hearts. 

'The  fact  is,  I  give  what  I  give  almost  in  an  opposite  way 
to  yours.  I  think  there  are  many  people  wlio  will  relieve 
hopeless  distress  for  one  who  will  helj)  at  a  hopeful  pinch; 
and  when  I  have  the  choice  I  nearly  always  give  where  I 
think  the  money  will  be  fruitful  rather  than  merely  helpful. 
I  would  lecture  for  a  school  when  I  would  not  for  a  distressed 
author;  and   would  have  helped    De   Marvy  to  perfect  his 

♦  Louis  Marvy,  an  engraver,  and  politie.il  refugee  after  the  Treiich 
Eevoluliou  of  1848.  He  produced  the  phites,  aud  Tliackeray  the  text, 
of '  Landscape  Painters  of  England,  in  a  aeries  of  steel  engravings,  with 
jhort  Notice*.' 


•UNTO  THIS  LAST'  197 

invention,  but  not — unless  I  hml  no  oUrt  oljjcct— liis  widow 
utter  he  was  ■;one.  In  a  word,  I  like  to  prop  the  fidliui;  more 
timn  to  feed  the  fallen.' 

The  winter  passed  without  any  fjreat  un(lcrtakinp;s.  Mr, 
G.  V  Watts  proposed  to  aild  ^Ir.  lUiskin's  ))ortrait  to  his 
gallery  of  celehrities  ;  hut  lie  was  in  no  mood  to  sit.  Kossetti 
did,  however,  sketeh  him  this  year.  In  Mareii  he  presented  a 
series  of  Turner  drawings  to  Oxford,  and  anotiier  set  of 
twenty-live  to  Cunibridge.  The  adtlress  of  thanks  with  the 
gix-at  seal  of  Oxford  University  is  dated  March  ii'.in\,  18G1 ; 
the  Catalogue  of  the  Cambridge  colleetion  is  dateil  May  SiSth. 

During  this  month  he  paid  a  visit  to  Winnington,  and 
some  time  in  the  early  j)art  of  the  year  went  to  Ireland  ivs  the 
guest  of  friends  in  county  Kildarc. 

On  April  2nd  he  aildressed  the  St.  George's  Mission 
Working  Men's  Institute,  and  shortly  afterwards,  though  at 
this  time  in  a  nuuh  enfeebled  state  of  health,  gave  a  lecture 
before  'a  most  brilliant  audience,''  as  the  Loinlon  licv'ino 
reported,  at  the  Royal  Institution  (April  TJlh,  18G1). 
Carlyle  wrote  to  his  brother  John  : — '  IViday  last  I  was 
pei-suaded — in  fact  liad  inwardly  compelled  myself  as  it  were 
— to  a  lecture  of  Iluskin's  at  the  Institution,  Albemarle 
Street.  Ixcturc  on  Tree  Leaves  as  physiological,  pictorial, 
moral,  symbolical  objects.  A  crammed  house,  but  tolerable 
even  to  ine  in  the  gallery.  The  lecture  w;is  thought  to 
"  break  down,'"  and  inileed  it  quite  did  "  as  a  lecture"' ;  but 
only  did  from  cmhurras  Je  rkhesses — a  rare  case.  Iluskin  tlid 
blow  asunder  as  by  gunpowder  explosions  his  leaf  notions, 
which  were  manifold,  curious,  genial ;  anil  in  fact,  I  do  not 
recollect  to  have  heard  in  that  pl\ce  any  neatest  thing  I  liked 
to  well  as  this  chaotic  one.' 

Papers  on  'Illuminated  Maiuiscripts'  (read  before  the 
society  of  Anti(|uaries  on  June  Gth)  and  on  'The  l';x.'scrva- 
lion  of  Ancient  Buildings'  (ri-ad  to  the  Ecdesiological  Society 
t  fortnight  later)  show  that  old  interests  were  not  wholly 
'orgotten,  even  in  the  stresa  of  new  pui-su'ts,  by  tliis  man  of 
ua:iy -sided  activity. 


CHAPTER  n. 

•MUNERA  PULVERIS.'    (1861-1862.) 

*Nor  kind  nor  coinage  buys 

Aught  above  its  rate  ; 

Fear,  Craft  and  Avarice 

Cannot  rear  a  State.' 

Emerson. 

IT  is  not  every  traveller  nowadays  who  knows  the  Saleve. 
One  goes  through  the  Alps  too  quickly  to  linger 
among  the  foothills,  and  a  mere  three  thousand  feet  of 
crag  above  the  plain  does  not  stop  the  way  to  aiguilles  and 
glaciers.  But  the  tourist  of  the  future,  after  seeing  \'oltaire''s 
Fernex  in  the  morning,  will  perhaps  pick  his  way  among  the 
fields  beyond  Carouge  and  through  the  gorge  of  Monnetier, 
or  drive  on  his  pilgrimage  by  Annemasse  round  the  Petit 
Saleve,  to  another  shrine  at  Mornex.  There,  two  thousand 
feet  above  sea-level,  basking  in  the  morning  sun,  and  looking 
always  over  the  broad  valley  of  the  Arve  at  Mont  Blanc  and 
its  panorama,  are  country  retreats  of  the  modem  Genevese, 
beneath  the  old  mother-castle  '  of  Savoy ':  and  there,  with  its 
shady  little  garden  and  rustic  summer-house,  is  the  chalet,  or 
cottage  ornce,  where  Mr.  Ruskin  went  into  hermitage,  and 
wrote  his  '  Political  Economy.'  You  can  enter,  now  :  it  is  a 
place  of  public  entertainment ;  and  in  the  cool,  broad- 
windowed  dining-room,  you  can  drink  a  glass  to  the  memory. 
His  retreat  is  described  in  one  of  his  letters  home : — 

'  My  dearest  Mother, 

'This  ought  to  arrive  on   the  evening   before  your 
birthday :  it  is  not  possible  to  reach  you  in  the  morning, 


'HIUNERA  PUI.VT,RIS'  199 

not  even  In-  tele^aph  as  I  once  did  from  Mont  Ccni':,  for — 
(nnd  nirtV  I  leaven  be  devoutly  tluinked  therefore) — thero  are 
)et  on  Mont  Saleve  neither  rails  nor  wires. 

'  The  plaee  I  have  fjot  to  is  at  the  end  of  all  carriage- roads, 
and  I  am  not  yet  strong  enough  to  get  farther,  on  foot,  than 
a  live  or  six  miles'  circle,  within  which  is  assuix'dly  no  house 
to  my  mind.  I  cast,  at  first,  somewhat  longing  eyes  on  a 
true  S^avoyard  chateau — notable  for  its  lovely  garilen  and 
orchanl — and  its  unspoiled,  unrcstored,  archetl  gateway 
between  two  round  turret.s,  and  Gothic  -  windowed  keep. 
Hut  on  examination — finding  the  walls,  though  six  feet 
tliick,  rent  to  the  foundation — and  as  cold  as  rocks,  and  the 
flooi-s  all  sodden  through  with  walnut  oil  and  rotten-apple 
juice— heaps  of  the  farm  stores  having  been  left  to  decay  in 
the  ci-devant  dniwing  room,  I  gave  up  all  mcdijeval  ideas, 
for  wliich  the  long-legged  black  pigs  who  lived  like  gentle- 
men at  ease  in  the  passjxge,  and  tlie  bats  and  spiders  who 
divideil  between  them  the  cornei-s  of  the  turret-stair,  have 
rcjLson — if  they  knew  it — to  be  thankful. 

'  The  worst  of  it  is  that  I  never  had  the  gift,  nor  have  I 
now  the  energy,  to  make  anything  of  a  place;  so  that  I  shall 
have  to  put  up  with  almost  anything  I  can  find  that  is 
healthily  habitable  in  a  good  situation.  Meantime,  the  air 
fiere  Ining  delicious  and  the  rooms  good  enough  for  use  and 
iromfort,  I  am  not  troubling  myself  much,  but  trying  to  put 
myself  into  better  health  and  humour;  in  which  I  have 
already  a  little  succeeiled.' 

After  describing  the  flowers  of  the  Saleve  he  continues: 

'My  Father  would  be  quite  wild  at  the  "view"  from  the 
garden  teirace — but  he  would  be  di.sgusted  at  the  shut  in 
Feeling  of  the  house,  which  is  in  fact  as  much  .shut  in  as  our 
old  Heme  Ilill  one;  only  to  get  the  "view"  I  have  but  to 
go  as  far  down  the  garden  as  to  our  olil  "  nuilberrv  tree." 
Hy  the  way  tlui-e's  a  magnilicent  nudberry  tree,  as  big  as  a 
couuiion  walmit,  covei-etl  with  black  and  red  fi-uit  on  the 
other  side  of  Uie  roail.     Coutet  and  Allen  are  very  anxious 


200        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

to  do  all  they  can  now  that  Crawley  is  away ;  and  I  don't 
think  I  shall  manage  very  badly,'  etc. 

Of  his  lonely  rambles,  he  wrote  later  on  :— 

•  Keswick, 

'  lOt/i  Augtist,  1867. 

'The  letter  I  have  sent  to  Joanna  to-day  will  seem  a 
strange  answer  to  your  hope  "  that  I  have  always  some  one 
with  me  on  my  mountain  rambles  " — but  that  would  be  quite 
impossible.  If  I  have  a  definite  point  to  reach,  and  common 
work  to  do  at  it — I  take  people — anybody — with  me  ;  but  all 
my  best  mental  work  is  necessarily  done  alone;  whenever  I 
wanted  to  think,  in  Savoy,  I  used  to  leave  Coutet  at  home. 
Constantly  I  have  been  alone  on  the  Glacier  des  Bois — and 
far  among  the  loneliest  aiguille  recesses.  I  found  the  path 
up  the  Brezon  above  Bonneville  in  a  lonely  walk  one  Sunday ; 
I  saw  the  gTandest  view  of  the  Alps  of  Savoy  I  ever  gained, 
on  the  2ud  of  January,  1862,  alone  among  the  snow  wreaths 
on  the  summit  of  the  Saleve.  You  need  not  fear  for  me  on 
"  Langdale  Pikes  "  after  that ;  humanly  speaking  I  have  never 
the  least  fear  on  these  lonely  walks — I  always  think  them  the 
safest — for  as  I  never  do  anything  foolhardy,  nor  without 
careful  examination  of  what  I  am  about,  I  have  always,  even 
in  my  naughtiest  times,  felt  that  I  should  be  taken  care  of, 
and  that — though  if  I  was  to  suffer  any  accid^t,  it  might 
come,  of  course,  at  any  time — yet  it  was  more  likely  to  come 
when  I  had  people  with  me,  than  when'  I  was  alone. 

'And,  in  mere  paltry  and  arithmetical  calculation  of 
danger,  I  assure  you  there  is  more,  nowadays,  in  a  walk  in 
and  out  of  London — from  possible  explosion  of  all  sorts  of 
diabolical  machines  and  compositions,  with  which  its  shops 
and  back  streets  are  iilletl — than  in  twenty  climbings  of  the 
craggiest  peaks  in  Cumberland. 

'I  have  however  been  very  shy  of  the  bogs  which  are  a 
new  acquaintance  to  me,  and  of  which  I  had  heard  awful 
stories — usually  I  have  gone  a  good  way  round,  to  avoid 
them.     But  that  hot  day,  whether  I  would  or  no,  I  couldn't 


•MUNERA  PULVERIS'  201 

get  from  one  pike  of  Ij\np;(lftlc  to  the  otiicr  without  crossing 
one.  I  exaiiiiiieil  it  carefully — and  I  am  sure  all  the  bog- 
stories  about  these  mountain  bogs  are  nonsense :  it  was  aa 
Bound  brown  earth  under  the  sduashy  glass  as  anybody  need 
wi.sh  to  walk  on — though,  of  course,  in  a  dark  night — one 
might  iiave  tunibleil  into  j)r>ols,  as  one  mi^ht  on  ('lai)lmni 
Common  into  a  hoi-scj)ond.' 

After  a  winter  among  the  Alps,  including  a  short  stay  at 
Lucerne,  hearing  that  the  Turner  drawings  in  the  National 
Gallery  had  been  mildewed,  he  ran  home  to  see  about  them 
in  February  1S(J2;  and  was  kept  until  tlie  end  of  May.  He 
founil  that  his  political  economy  work  was  not  such  a  total 
failure  as  it  liad  seemed.  Mr.  Froude,  then  editor  of  Frascfa 
M(iff(i~hie,  thougiit  there  was  something  in  it,  and  woulil  give 
him  another  chance.  So,  by  way  of  a  fresh  start,  he  had  his 
Four  Cornhill  articles  published  in  book  form  ;  and  almost 
Biuuiltaneously,  in  June  ISGii  the  firet  of  the  new  series 
npjuared. 

The  author  had  then  returned  to  I.ucenie ;  and  he  soon 
crossed  the  St.  Gothard  to  Milan,  where  he  tried  to  foiget 
the  harrowing  of  hell  in  a  close  study  of  Luini,  and  in 
copying  the  'St.  Catherine'  now  at  Oxford.  Mr.  lluskin  has 
never  s;iid  so  mudj  about  Luini  as,  perhap.s,  he  intended.  A 
ihort  notice  in  the  'Cestus  of  Aglaia,' and  occasional  refer- 
»nces  scattered  up  and  down  his  later  works,  hardly  give  the 
prominence  in  his  writings  that  the  painter  held  in  his 
thoughts. 

lie  re-crosscd  the  Alps,  and  settled  to  his  work  on  political 
economy  at  Monies,  where  he  .sjwnt  the  winter  except  for  a 
short  run  home,  which  gave  him  the  opportunity  of  addres.sing 
the  Working  .Men's  Coihge  on  November  i!9. 

In  September  the  second  article  appeared  in  Fraser. 
'Only  a  genius  like  Mr.  Uuskin  could  have  produced  such 
hopeless  rubbish,'  says  a  newspaper  of  the  period.  Far  worse 
than  any  newspaper  criticism  was  the  condemnation  of 
Denmark  Uill.     His  father,  whose  eyes  had  glistcued  over 


202        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

early  poems  and  prose  eloquence,  strongly  disapproved  of  this 
heretical  economy.  It  was  a  bitter  thing  that  his  son  should 
become  prodigal  of  a  hardly  earned  i-eputation,  and  lie 
pointed  at  for  a  fool.  And  it  was  intensely  painful  for  a  son 
'  who  hatl  never  given  his  father  a  pang  that  could  he  avoided,'' 
as  old  Mr.  Ruskin  had  once  wi-itten,  to  find  his  father,  with 
one  foot  in  the  grave,  turning  against  him.  In  December  the 
third  paper  appeared.  History  repeated  itself,  —  as  usual, 
with  variations.  This  time  not  only  the  public  but  the 
publisher  interfered ;  and  with  the  fourth  paper  the  heretic 
was  gagged.  A  year  after,  his  father  died  ;  and  these  Fraser 
articles  were  laid  aside  until  the  end  of  1871,  when  thev  were 
taken  up  again,  and  published  on  New  Year's  Day  1872,  as 
'  Munera  Pulveris.' 

It  is  hardly  necessary  here,  and  now,  to  discuss  or  to  defend 
Mr.  Ruskin's  protest  against  the  political  economy  of  the  old 
school.  Step  by  step  it  has  won  its  way  to  audience,  and,  in 
most  quarters,  to  approval  of  the  main  theses  it  advanced. 
And  even  if  it  be  said  that  the  victory  was  gained  in  disguise, 
— for  other  men  have  entered  into  his  labours  and  restated 
his  ideas, — the  fact  remains  that  we  owe  the  larger  hope  and 
kindlier  authority  of  what  was  once  the  '  dismal  science '  to  the 
daring  pioneer- work  of '  Unto  this  Last'  and '  Munera  Pulveris.' 

From  the  outset,  Mr.  Ruskin  was  not  without  supporters. 
Carlyle  wrote  on  June  30, 1862  : — '  I  have  read,  a  month  ago, 
your  First  in  Fraser,  and  ever  since  have  had  a  wish  to  say 
to  it  and  you,  Eitge,  maite  nova  virtute.  I  approved  in  every 
particular ;  calm,  definite,  clear ;  rising  into  the  sphere  of 
Plato  (our  almost  best),  wh**  in  exchange  for  the  sphere  of 
Macculloch,  Mill  and  Co.  is  a  mighty  improvement !  Since 
that,  I  have  seen  the  little  ffreen  book,  too ;  reprint  of  your 
Cornhill  operations, — about  f  of  wh*"  was  read  to  me  {knoicn 
only  from  what  the  contradict"  of  sinners  had  told  nie  of  it)  • 
. — in  every  part  of  wh*"  I  find  a  high  and  noble  sort  of  truth, 
not  one  doctrine  that  I  can  intrinsically  dissent  from,  or 
count  other  than  salutary  in  the  extreme,  and  pressingly 
needed  in  EngF  above  all.' 


'MUNERA  PULVERIS'  203 

F.rskine  of  I.inlathen  wrote  to  Carlyle,  7  Aii^ust  1862:— 
•I  am  thankful  for  aiiv  iiiiveiliii}:;  of  the  so-called  science  of 
political  economy,  accorilin<j  to  which,  avowed  selHshness  is 
the  Rule  of  the  U'tirld.  It  is  indeed  most  inii)ortant  ])ieach- 
iujx — to  preach  that  there  is  not  one  God  for  reiifiion  and 
another  (iotl  for  human  fellowship — and  another  (iod  for 
buying  and  selling  —  that  pestilent  jioly theism  has  been 
largely  anil  conlidentiv  preached  in  our  time,  and  blessed  are 
those  who  can  detect  its  mendacities,  and  help  to  disenchant 
the  bivthren  of  their  power. 

'I  feel  much  self-condemnation  on  reading  this  little  book 
— not  that  it  deciai-es  what  I  did  not  know  before,  as  to  every 
man's  duty  to  every  man — and  I  can  only  wish  the  writer 
increasetl  light  and  increased  power,  to  carry  on  his  good 
work.'  [Then,  referring  to  the  cataract  which  was  threaten- 
ing him  with  blindness,  he  adds — ]  '  The  little  book  is 
valuable  on  its  own  account,  and  coming  from  you,  it  is 
doubly  so.' 

.Mr.  J.  A.  Froude,  then  ethtor  of  Frascr,  and  to  his  dying 
day  .Mr.  Ruskin's  intimate  and  aflcctionate  friend,  wrote  to 
him  on  OcIoIkt  Hi  (18(j2  .-)— '  Tiie  worlil  talks  of  the  article 
in  its  usual  way.  I  was  at  Carlyle's  liust  night.  ...  lie  said 
that  in  writing  to  your  father  as  to  subject  he  had  told  him 
that  when  Solomon's'tcmple  was  building  it  was  credibly  re- 
ported that  at  Icaiit  10,000  spanows  sitting  on  the  trees  round 
de<*lare<l  that  it  was  entirely  wrong — quite  contrary  to  receivcl 
opinion — liopclessly  condenmetl  by  |)ublic  opinion,  etc.  Never- 
theless it  got  finished  anil  the  spaiTows  Hew  away  and  begi« 
to  chirp  iu  the  same  note  about  somethin|{  else.' 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  LIMESTONE  ALPS,    (1863.) 

•In  delectn  autera  narrationum  et  experimentorum  melins  lioniin?T>n8 
cavisse  uos  arliitramur  quam  qui  aJbuc  iu  hisloria  uaturali  versati  suut.' 
— Bacon,  Inst.  Magn/u 

OUR  hermit  among  the  Alps  of  Savoy  diiTered  in  one 
ies)iect  from  his  preclectssoi-s.  They,  for  the  most 
part,  saw  nothing  iu  the  rocks  and  stones  around  them 
except  the  prison  wails  of  their  seclusion ;  he  could  not  be 
within  constant  sight  of  the  mountains  without  watcliing 
tlieni  and  thinking  over  them,  and  the  wonders  of  their 
scenery  and  structure.  And  it  was  well  for  him  that  it 
could  be  so.  The  terrible  depression  of  mind  which  his  social 
and  ])hilanthro})ic  work  had  brought  on,  found  a  relief  in  the 
renewal  of  his  old  mountain-worsliip.  After  sending  off  the 
]a.st  of  his  Fraser  papers,  in  which,  when  the  verdict  had 
twice  gone  against  him,  he  tried  to  sliow  cause  why  sentence 
should  not  be  passed,  the  strain  was  at  its  severest.  lie  felt, 
as  few  others  not  directly  interested  felt,  the  sulferings  of  the 
outcast  in  English  sluius  and  Savoyard  hovels  ;  and  heard  the 
cry  of  the  oppressed  in  Poland  and  in  Italy  :  and  he  had  been 
silenced.  AVliat  couki  he  do  but,  as  he  said  in  the  letters  to 
Mr.  Norton,  '  lay  his  head  to  the  very  ground,'  and  try  to 
forget  it  all  among  the  stones  and  the  snows? 

He  wandered  about  geologi/ing,  and  spent  a  while  at 
Talloires  on  the  Lake  of  Annccy,  where  the  old  Abbey  had 
been  turned  into  an  inn,  and  one  slept  in  a  monk's  cell  and 


THE  LIMESTONE  ALPS  205 

meditated  in  the  cloister  of  the  monnster3',  St.  Bernard  of 
Meiitiion's  nicmorv  haunting  tlie  place,  and  St.  Germain's 
cave  close  by  in  the  rocks  above.  About  the  end  of  May 
Mr.  Uuskin  came  back  to  Enp^land,  and  was  invited  to  lecture 
f»;;ain  at  the  Royal  Institution.  The  subject  he  chose  was 
'The  Stratifietl  Alps  of  Savoy.' 

At  that  time  many  distinj^uisheil  foreijjn  geolo<rists  were 
wovkiiii;  at  the  Alps;  but  little  of  conclusive  importance 
hail  been  published,  except  in  papei-s  embeilded  in  Trans- 
nctions  of  various  societies.  I'rofessor  Alphonse  Eavre's 
Ljii'at  work  did  not  appear  until  18fi7,  and  the  '  Mcchanismus 
[ler  (lebir^sbililunfj'  of  Professor  Ileim  not  till  1878;  so  that 
for  an  Enj^lish  public  the  subject  was  a  fresh  one.  To  Mr. 
lluskin  it  wiis  familiar:  he  hail  been  electeil  a  Fellow  of  the 
Lieoloirical  Societv  in  1840,  at  the  ajjc  of  twentv-one;  he 
had  worketl  throujjh  Savoy  with  his  Saussure  in  hand  nearly 
thirty  yeai-s  befoiT,  and,  many  a  time  since  that,  had  spent 
the  intervals  of  literary  business  in  rambling  and  climbing 
ft  ilii  the  liammer  and  note-book.  Inileed,  on  all  his  travels 
»nil  even  on  liis  usual  afternoon  walks  lie  was  accustomed  to 
keep  his  eves  o|)en  for  the  geology  of  anv  neighbourhood  he 
Has  in  ;  and  his  servant  ivgularly  carried  a  bag  for  specimens, 
ivhich  rarely  came  Iiome  empty.  The  note-books  of  the 
'Modern  Painters'  period  contain  infinite  memoranda  and 
Jiagrannnalic  sketches,  of  which  a  very  small  fraction  have 
been  used.  In  the  held  he  had  coni|)ared  Studer's  meagre 
sections,  and  consulteil  the  available  authorities  on  j)hysical 
Sjeologv,  though  he  hail  never  entered  ujion  the  more  po|)ular 
iister-science  of  paheontology.  lie  left  the  iletermination  of 
(trata  to  sjKcialists :  his  interest  was  lixed  on  the  structure  of 
mountains — the  relation  of  geology  to  scenery ;  a  question 
upon  which  he  had  .some  right  to  be  heard,  as  knowing  more 
ibout  .scenery  than  most  geologists,  and  more  aiiout  geology 
Ihm  most  artists.  His  tlis.sent  from  orthodox  opinions  was 
[lot  the  mere  blunder  of  an  ill-informe<l  amateur ;  it  wa.s  a 
pmtest  against  the  ado|)tion  of  certain  views  which  had 
l>ecouie  fuahionuble,  owing  chieHy  to  tlie  popularity  of  the 


206        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

men  who  had  propounded  them.  Parallel  with  the  state- 
religion  in  England  there  has  been  a  state-science;  the 
prestige  of  the  science-bishops  has  been  no  doubt  as  wisely 
used  as  that  of  the  church-bishops  :  it  has  certainly  prevailed 
wi^h  their  o\vn  inferior  clergy  and  laity  in  much  the  same 
way.  J\Ir.  Ruskin,  who  had  been  the  admirer  and  to  some 
extent  the  personal  pupil  of  several  of  the  leading  geologists 
of  the  last  generation,  questioned  the  infallibility  of  the  more 
recent  school,  and  now,  as  the  Journal  de  Geneve  reported,  '  la 
foule  se  pressait  dans  les  salles  de  V  Institut  royale  de  Londres, 
pour  entendre  la  lecture  des  fragments  d'un  ouvrage  scien- 
tifique,  dont  Tauteur  compte  parmi  les  ecrivains  les  plus 
estimes  de  TAngleterre.  ]M.  Ruskin  s'est  fait  connaitre 
depuis  longtemps  par  des  publications  remarquables  sur  Fart 
en  general  et  la  peinture  en  particulier,  mais  il  se  pre'sentait 
cette  fois  a  son  auditoire  sous  un  nouveau  jour.  C'etait 
le  goologue  que  Ton  venait  entendre,  et  levenement  a 
prouve  qu'il  n'etait  point  inferieur  au  litterateur  et  au 
critique.'' 

The  main  object  of  this  lecture  was  to  draw  attention  to  a 
series  of  mountain  forms  which  could  not  have  been  produced 
merely  by  erosion,  conditioned  as  they  are  by  internal  struc- 
ture and  original  elevation  ;*  and  to  protest  against  the 
extravagant  apjilication  of  the  glacier- theories  then  coming 
into  vogue.  In  this,  also,  he  was  doing  pioneer  work  :  for  the 
views  of  1863  have  gradually  undergone  very  considerable 
modification,  in  the  direction  wliich  JNIr.  Ruskin  then 
endeavoured  to  indicate. 

As  examples  of  Savoy  mountains  this  lecture  described  in 
detail  the  Saleve,  on  which  he  had  been  living  for  two  winters, 
and  the  Brezon,  the  top  of  which  he  had  tried  to  buy  from 
the  commune  of  Bonneville — one  of  his  many  plans  for  settling 
among  the  Alps.  The  commune  thought  he  had  found  a 
gold-mine  up  there,  and  raised  the  price  out  of  all  reason. 
Other  attempts  to  make  a  home  in  the  chateaux  or  chalets  of 

*  Described  in  farther  detail  in  '  The  Limestoue  Alps  of  Savoy '  • 
iupplementary  volume  to  '  Deucalion.' 


THE  LIMESTONE  ALPS  207 

Savov  were  foiled,  or  aliandonccl,  like  liis  earlier  idea  to  live  in 
N'enice.  But  his  sirnmhies  on  the  Saluve  led  him  to  hesitate 
in  aiceptingj  the  explanation  given  by  Aljihonse  Favre  of  the 
curious  north-west  face  of  steeply  inelined  vertical  slabs, 
which  lie  suspectetl  to  be  created  by  cleavage,  on  the  analogy 
of  other  Jurassic  precipices.  The  Ih-ezon — briinnt,  breaking- 
wave — he  took  as  type  of  the  billowy  form  of  limestone  Aljjs 
in  general,  and  his  analysis  of  it  was  serviceable  and  substan- 
tial Iv  correct. 

This  lecture  was  followed  in  ISG^  by  desultory  coiTcspond- 
ence  with  Mr.  Jukes  and  others  in  the  litaihr,  in  which  he 
meiflv  restated  his  conclusions,  too  slightly  to  convince. 
ILul  he  devote<l  himself  to  a  thorough  examination  of  the 
subject — but  this  is  in  the  region  of  what  might  have  been. 
He  was  more  seriously  engagetl  in  other  pui-suits,  of  more 
immediate  importance.  Three  days  after  his  lecture  he  was 
being  examinctl  before  the  Royal  Academy  Conunission,  and 
after  a  short  summer  visit  to  various  friends  in  the  north  of 
England,  he  set  out  again  for  the  Alps,  partly  to  study  the 
pt'tiiogy  of  Chamouni  and  North  Switzerland,  partly  to  con- 
tinue his  drawings  of  Swiss  towns  at  Baden  and  Laurt'enburg, 
with  his  j)upil  John  Bunney.  But  even  there  the  burden  of 
his  real  mission  could  not  be  shaken  off,  and  though  again 
seeking  health  and  a  (juict  mind,  he  could  not  quite  keep 
silence,  but  wrote  lettei-s  to  English  newspapers  on  the 
depreciation  of  gold  (re|)eating  his  theory  of  currency),  and 
on  the  wrongs  of  Poland  and  Italy  ;  and  he  put  together 
more  pa|)ers,  never  publishetl,  in  continuation  of  his  '  Munera 
Pulveris." 

But  this  desultorv'  habit,  by  which  ]VIr.  Buskin's  strength 
was  broken  up  into  many  channels, — while  it  prcvcnteil  his 
doing  any  one  great  work  with  convincing  thoroughness  in 
his  later  perioti, — was  not  l)y  any  means  an  unlmlanced  mis- 
Forfune.  It  is  (piite  imjWNsible  for  a  man  who  has  no  feeling 
for  art  and  no  interest  in  scienc-e  to  regard  life  as  a  whole, — 
especially  mwlem  life  :  and  this  Mr.  Uuskiu  was  better  littcd 
Uian  any  of  his  contemporaries  to  do. 


208        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

In  the  last  centurv,  Samuel  Johnson,  great  thinker  as  he 
was,  found  his  influence  decisively  limited  by  his  ignorance  of 
the  arts,  and  his  consequent  inability  to  take  into  his  purview 
a  whole  range  of  emotions,  activities  and  influences  which  are 
really  important  in  the  sphere  of  ethics,  as  motives  of  action 
and  indices  of  character.  So  in  this  centur}',  Johnson^s  spiritual 
successor,  Carlyle,  from  a  similar  lack  of  sympathy  with  art 
and  an  indolence  in  acquiring  even  the  rudiments  of  jihvsical 
science, — from  a  certain  want  of  ear  for  poetry*  and  eye  for 
nature, — was  left  short-handed,  short-sighted,  in  many  an 
enterprise.  In  framing  an  ideal  of  life  he  is  narrow,  ascetic, 
rude,  as  compared  with  the  wider  and  more  refined  culture  of 
a  Ruskin. 

Something  of  this  contempt  for  scientific  facts  and  theories 
which  he  had  never  faced,  and  easy  admission  of  mysteries  he 
cared  not  to  solve,  is  traceable  in  a  letter  written  soon  after 
the  period  we  have  been  describing,  and  in  sequel  to  the 
Savoy  Alps  discussion.  I  print  it,  with  a  few  others  of  his, 
from  the  originals,  as  illustrating  the  intercourse  of  our  Britisli 
Elijah  with  his  Elisha.  Since  about  1850,  Carlyle  had  been 
gradually  becoming  more  and  more  friendly  with  Mr.  Rusk  in  ; 
and  now  that  this  social  and  economical  work  had  been  taken 
up,  he  began  to  have  a  real  esteem  for  him,  though  always 
with  a  patronizing  tone,  which  the  younger  man's  open  and 
confessed  discipleship  accepted  and  encouraged.  This  letter 
especially  shows  both  men  in  an  unaccustomed  light :  Ruskin, 
hating  tobacco,  sends  his  '  master '  cigars  ;  Carlyle,  hating 
cant,  replies  rather  in  the  tone  of  the  temperance  advocate, 
taking  a  little  wine  for  his  stomach's  sake : — 

'  Chelsea, 

*  Deae  Ruskin,  '  22  Fthv,  18C5. 

'  You  have  sent  me  a  munificent  Box  of  Cigars ;  for 
wh**  what  can  I  say  in  ans''  ?  It  makes  me  both  sad  and  glad. 
Ay  de  mi. 

*  As  proved  by  bis  line — 'And  weave  for  God  the  garment  thou 
seest  Him  by,' — if  proof  be  nee<led.  It  is  not  susroested  tliat  he  did  not 
find,  and  admirably  illustrate,  the  ethical  interest  of  poetry. 


THE  LIJIESTONE  ALPS  209 

•Wenresucli  stuff, 
Goue  with  a  piiir— 
Tlieu  tliiuk,  auil  srunke  Tobacco  !" 

•llie  ^^'ife  also  has  liiitl  licr  Flowei-s ;  and  a  letter  wh'"  has 
charmed  tlie  feiiiide  mind.  You  forf^ot  only  the  first  ilmptcr 
of  "Aglaia"; — don't  forget;  anil  be  a  gooil  boy  for  the 
future. 

' 'llie  Geology  Book  wjxsn't  Jiilr.i ;  I  found  it  ngnin  in  the 
Mnga/ine, — reviewed  there  :  "Phillips,"*  is  there  such  a  name  ? 
It  has  ag"  escaped  me.  I  have  a  notion  to  conic  out  aetually 
some  day  soon  ;  anil  take  a  serious  Lceturc  from  you  on  what 
you  rcallv  know,  anil  can  give  me  some  intelligible  outline 
of,  ah'  the  Rocks, — hoiws  of  our  poor  old  Mother;  wh"'  have 
always  been  venerable  and  strange  to  nic.  Next  to  nothing 
of  rational  could  I  ever  learn  of  the  subject.  That  of  a 
central  (ire,  and  molten  sea,  on  wh*"  all  mountains,  continents, 
and  strata  are  s])reail  floating  like  so  manv  liides  of  leather, 
knocks  in  vain  for  admittance  into  nic  these  forty  yeai-s : 
who  of  mortals  can  really  believe  such  a  thing!  And  that, 
in  descending  into  mines,  these  geological  gent"  find  them- 
selves approaching  scmiblij  their  central  fire  by  the  sensible 
and  imdeniable  Increase  of  temperature  as  they  step  down, 
round  after  round, — has  always  appeared  to  argue  a  Ictiglh 
of  ear  on  the  j)art  of  those  gent",  wh*"  is  the  real  miracle  of 
the  phenomenon.  Alas,  alas :  we  are  dreadful  ignoramuses 
nil  of  us  ! — Alls'  nothing ;  but  don't  be  suipriscd  if  I  turn  up 
Bomc  day. 

*  Yours  ever 

'T.  Cauli-lk.' 

•  •  Jnkc,,'— ^fr.  J.  B.  Jiikps,  F.n.S.,  with  whom  Mr.  Ri.skin  had 
lieeii  (li.w-u.'wiiig  iu  the  Rnvlrr.  '  Phillips,'  the  Oxfurd  Prufeaaor  of 
Gculog^,  aud  a  fnead  of  Mr.  Kuskiu'a, 


CHAPTER  IV. 

•SESAME  AKD  LILIES.'    (1864.) 

*  Wherefore  we  ought  alls  women  to  obeye 
In  al  goodnesse  :  I  can  no  more  saye.' 

Chauceh. 

WIDER  aims  and  weaker  health  had  not  put  an  end 
to  Mr.  Ruskin's  connection  with  the  Working  Men's 
College,  though  he  did  not  now  teach  a  drawing-class 
regularly.  He  had,  as  he  said,  '  the  satisfaction  of  knowing 
that  they  had  very  good  masters  in  Messrs.  Lowes  Dickinson, 
Jeffery  and  Cave  Thomas,'  and  his  work  was  elsewhere.  He 
was  to  have  lectured  there  on  December  19th,  1863 ;  but 
he  did  not  reach  home  until  about  Christmas;  better  than 
he  had  been ;  and  ready  to  give  the  promised  address  on 
January  30th,  1864.  Beside  which  he  used  to  visit  the 
place  occasionally  of  an  evening  to  take  note  of  progress,  and 
some  of  his  pupils  were  now  more  directly  under  his  care. 

This  more  than  ten  years''  connection  with  a  very  practical 
work  of  education  must  not  be  forgotten  when  we  try  to 
estimate  his  ideals  of  culture  and  social  arrangements,  which 
hasty  readers  are  apt  to  suppose  the  table-talk  of  an  arm- 
chair philosopher.  So  energetic  a  man,  one  who  spent  no 
time  in  the  ordinary  recreations  of  life — more  the  pity, 
ultimately,  for  his  own  usefulness  and  happiness  in  later 
periods — so  busy  a  mind,  found  opportunity  for  many  occu- 
pations. And  he  does  not  deserve  to  be  rated  as  a  dilettante 
or  a  visionary  simply  because  other  folk  cannot  imagine  how 
he  managed  to  do  more  work  than  they. 


•SESAME  AND  LILIES'  211 

It  was  from  one  of  these  visits  to  the  CoUe^Ic,  on 
Febnmi  V  2Tth,  thnt  he  ri'tiirncd,  jinst  iiiiiinijjht,  ftiul  fouiul 
his  father  waiting  up  for  him,  to  reail  some  letters  lie  had 
written.  Next  morning  the  old  man,  close  upon  seventy- 
nine  years  of  age,  was  stnuk  with  his  la-st  illness  ;  and  died 
on  the  '3i\l  of  March.  He  was  buried  at  Shirley  Church, 
in  ir  .\ddington,  in  Surrey,  not  far  from  Croydon;  and  the 
|i  -.  lul  on  his  tomb  records  :  '  He  wius  an  entirely  honest 
nitrihant,  and  his  memory  is  to  all  who  keep  it  dear  and 
helpful.  Ilis  son,  whom  he  loved  to  the  uttermost,  and 
taught  to  speak  truth,  says  this  of  him.' 

Mr.  John  James  lluskin,  like  many  other  of  our  successfu. 
merchants,  had  been  an  open-handed  patron  'of  art,  and  a 
cheerful  giver,  not  only  to  needy  friends  and  relatives,  but 
aNo  to  various  charities.  For  exam])le,  as  a  kind  of  pei-sonal 
tiiluite  to  Osborne  Gordon,  his  son's  tutor,  he  gave  I'oOOO 
toward  the  augmentation  of  poor  Christ-Church  livings. 
His  son's  open-handed  way  with  dependants  and  servants 
was  learned  from  the  old  merchant,  who,  unlike  many  hard- 
working money-makei-s,  was  always  ready  to  give,  though 
he  could  not  l)ear  to  lose.  In  sjiite  of  which  he  left  a  con- 
sitlerable  fortune  behind  him, — consiilerable  when  it  is  under- 
stood to  be  the  earnings  of  his  single-handed  industry  and 
steady  sagacity  in  legitimate  business,  without  indulgence  in 
speculation.  He  left  i^l20,000,  with  various  other  pro|)erty, 
to  his  son.  To  his  wife  he  left  his  house  and  -£137,000,  and 
a  void  which  it  seemwl  at  first  nothing  could  fill.  For  of 
late  years  the  son  had  drifted  out  of  their  horizon,  with  ideas 
on  religion  and  the  ordering  of  life  so  very  different  from 
theirs  ;  and  had  been  nmch  away  from  home — he  sometimes 
■aid,  selfishly,  but  not  without  the  greatest  of  all  excuses, 
neces-sity.  And  so  the  two  old  peojile  had  been  brought 
closer  than  ever  together ;  and  she  had  livetl  entirely  for  her 
husband.  Ihit,  as  Browning  said, — '  I'ut  a  stick  in  anywhere, 
and  she  will  nni  up  if — so  the  brave  old  lady  did  not  faint 
under  the  blow,  and  fade  away,  but  transferred  her  affections 
and  interests  to  her  son.  Before  his  father's  death  the 
14-J 


212        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

difference  of  feeling  between  them,  arising  out  of  the  heretical 
economy,  had  been  healed.  Old  j\Ir.  lluskin's  will  treated 
his  son  with  all  confidence  in  spite  of  his  unorthodox  views 
and  unbusiness-like  ways.  And  for  nearly  eight  years  longer 
his  mother  lived  on,  to  see  him  pass  through  this  probation- 
period  into  such  recognition  as  an  Oxford  Professorship 
implied,  and  to  find  in  her  last  years  his  later  books 
'  becoming  more  and  more  what  they  always  ought  to  have 
been  to '  her. 

At  the  same  time,  her  failing  sight  and  strength  needed  a 
constant  household  companion.  Her  son,  though  he  did  not 
leave  home  yet  awhile  for  any  long  journeys,  could  not  be 
always  with  her.  Only  six  weeks  after  the  funeral  he  was 
called  away  for  a  time.  Before  going  he  brought  his  pretty 
young  Scotch  cousin.  Miss  Joanna  Ruskin  Agnew  to  Denmark 
Hill  for  a  week's  visit.  She  recommended  herself  at  once  to 
the  old  lady,  and  to  Carlyle,  who  happened  to  call,  by  her 
frank  good-nature  and  unquenchable  sj)irits  ;  and  her  visit 
lasted  seven  years,  until  she  was  married  to  the  son  of  the 
Ruskins'  old  friend,  Joseph  Severn,  British  Consul  at  Rome. 
Even  then  she  was  not  allowed  far  out  of  their  sight,  but 
settled  in  the  old  house  at  Heme  Hill :  '  nor  virtually,'  says 
Mr.  Ruskin  in  the  last  chapter  of  '  Pra2terita,''  'have  she 
and  I  ever  parted  since.' 

All  through  that  year  he  remained  at  home,  except  for 
short  necessary  visits,  and  frequent  evenings  with  Carlyle. 
And  when,  in  December,  he  gave  those  -lectures  in  IManchester 
which  afterwards,  as  '  Sesame  and  Lilies,'  became  his  most 
popular  work,  we  can  trace  his  better  health  of  mind  and 
body  in  the  brighter  tone  of  his  thought.  We  can  hear  the 
echo  of  Carlyle's  talk  in  the  heroic,  aristocratic.  Stoic  ideals, 
and  in  the  insistence  on  the  value  of  books  and  free  public 
libraries,* — Carlyle  being  the  founder  of  the  London  Library. 

*  The  first  lecture,  '  On  Kings'  Treasuries,'  was  given,  December  6th, 
1864,  at  Eusholme  Town  Hall,  Manchester,  in  aid  of  a  library  fund  for 
the  llusholme  Institute.  Tlie  second,  'Queens'  Gardens,'  was  given, 
December  Ulh,  at  the  Town  Hall,  King  Street,  now  the  Free  Reference 
Library,  Manchester,  in  aid  of  schools  for  Ancoats. 


•SESAME  AND  LILIES'  213 

And  we  may  suspect  that  his  thoughts  on  women's  influence 
ami  education  had  been  not  a  little  diixtted  by  those  months 
ill  the  company  of  'tlie  dear  old  lady  and  ditto  young'  to 
whom  Carlyle  used  to  send  iiis  love. 

These  lectures  were  the  following  up  of  his  economic 
writing  in  this  sense, — that  he  had  recjuired  a  certain  riioral 
culture  as  the  necessjirv  condition  for  realising  his  plans.  It 
was  as  if  one  shoulil  sjiy,  'Here  is  an  engine;  on  these 
princijiles  it  works  ;  but  it  must  be  kejit  clean,  oiled  and 
polished.'  He  did  not  demand, — and  this  is  important  to 
note, — he  did  not  demand  a  state  of  society  hopelessly 
unlike  the  present,  such  as  the  altruistic  guild-brethren  of 
Mr.  Morris's  Epoch  of  Rest,  or  the  clock-work  harmony  of 
Mr.  Bellamy's  American  Utopia.  He  took  human  nature  as 
it  is,  but  at  its  best;  not,  a-s  the  older  economists  did,  at  its 
worst.  He  tried  to  show  how  the  best  could  be  brought  out, 
and  what  the  standards  shoulil  be  towards  which  education 
and  legislation  should  direct  immediate  public  attention. 
♦Sesame  and  Lilies'  j)uts  in  popular  form  his  explanation 
of  the  phrase  in  'Muiiera  Pulveris,' — 'certain  conditions  of 
moral  culture.'' 

In  18Gi  a  new  series  of  papers  on  Art  was  begun,  the  only 
published  work  upon  Art  of  all  these  ten  years.  The  papers 
ran  in  the  Art  Journal  from  January  to  July  l.Sfi.5,  ami  from 
January  to  Aj)ril  18G(),  under  the  title  of  'The  CVstus  of 
Aglaia,'  by  which  was  meant  the  Girdle,  or  restraining  law, 
of  Heauty,  as  jiei-sonilied  in  the  wife  of  Hepha-stus,  'the  Lord 
of  Labour.'  Their  intention  was  to  suggest,  and  to  evoke 
by  cori-espondence,  'some  laws  for  present  practice  of  art  in 
our  schools,  which  may  be  admitted,  if  not  with  absolute,  at 
leiust  with  a  sutlicient  consent,  by  leading  artists.'  As  a  first 
step  the  author  aske<l  for  the  elementary  rules  of  drawing. 
For  his  own  contribution  he  showed  the  value  of  the 'pure 
line,'  *^cli  as  he  hatl  used  in  liis  own  early  drawings,  leanit 
originally  from  Cruikshank  etchings  and  I'rout  lithographs, 
ami  practised — with  what  success  can  be  judged  from  such 
drawings  as  Uie  '  Koueu' reproduced  in  the'roeina.'     I.Atcr 


214        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

on,  he  had  adopted  a  looser  and  more  picturesque  stvle  of 
handling  the  point;  and  in  the  'Elements  of  Drawing'  he 
had  taught  his  readers  to  take  Rembrandt's  etchings  as  exem- 
plary. But  now  he  felt  that  this  '  evasive '  manner,  as  he 
called  it,  had  its  dangers.  It  had,  in  fact,  originated  the 
ordinary  type  of  popular  free  draughtsmanship,  degenerating 
sometimes  into  that  black  blotting  and  scribbling  with  which 
Mr.  Ruskin's  ideals  of  delicacy,  purity,  dignity,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  actual  fineness  of  organic  form,  have  nothing  in 
common.  And  so  these  papers  attempted  to  supersede  the 
amateui-ish  object  lessons  of  the  earlier  work  by  stricter  rules 
for  a  severer  style ;  prematurely,  as  it  proved,  for  the  chapters 
came  to  an  end  before  the  promised  code  was  formulated ; 
though  they  contained  interesting — if  rather  free — criticism 
of  current  art,  and  many  passages  of  lively  wit  and  pretty 
description.  The  same  work  was  taken  up  again  in  'The 
Laws  of  Fesole';  but  the  use  of  the  pui'e  line,  which 
]Mr.  Ruskin's  precepts  failed  to  enforce,  was,  in  the  end, 
taught  to  the  public  by  the  charming  practice  of  Mr.  Walter 
Crane  and  Miss  Greenaway. 

A  lecture  at  the  Camberwell  Working  Men's  Institute  on 
'Work  and  Play'  was  given  on  January  24th,  1865;  which, 
as  it  was  printed  in  'The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive,'  we  will 
notice  further  on.  Various  letters  and  papers  on  political 
and  social  economy  and  other  subjects  hardly  call  for  separate 
notice :  with  the  exception  of  one  very  important  address  to 
the  Royal  Institution  of  British  Architects,  given  April  15th, 
'  Ou  the  Studj  of  Aixhitectui-e  iu  oui-  Schools.' 


CHAPTER  V. 

•ETHICS  OF  THE  DUST.'    (18G5.) 

'Si  cette  enfant  m'etait  confine  je  ferais  d'elle,  non  pas  line  sftrante, 
oar  je  lui  veux  <iu  bieu,  m»is  uue  eiifiiut  brillaute  d'iutelli^euce  et  <Je 
▼ie  et  en  laquelle  tuutes  lea  bellea  chosea  de  la  nature  et  d'urt  se  retl^lerait 
avec  un  doux  «5clat.  Je  la  feraU  vivre  en  sympatliie  avec  lea  beaux 
payangea,  avec  lea  acouea  id^alea  de  la  po^aie  et  de  I'liiatoire,  avec  l.i 
mu.<(i>iiie  noblenient  imue.  Je  lui  rendraia  aimable  tout  ce  que  je 
vuudraia  lui  faire  aiuier.' — Anatole  Fkance,  Le  Crime  de  Sylvestre 
Bonnard. 

WHITING  to  his  father  from  Manchester  about  the 
Ictture  of  Febniarv  22,  1859— '  The  Fnity  of  Art' 
— Mr.  lluskin  mentions,  among  various  jjeople  of 
interest  whom  he  was  meeting,  such  as  Sir  Elkanah  Armitage 
and  Mrs.  Giuskell,  how  '  Miss  Bell  and  four  young  ladies  came 
from  Chester  to  hear  me,  and  I  promised  to  pay  them  a 
visit  on  my  way  home,  to  their  apparent  great  content- 
ment.' 

ITie  visit  was  paid  on  his  way  back  from  Yorkshire.  He 
wrote; — 

'WlNSilNOTOX, 

'NOKTUWICn,  CllEatURR, 

'  12  J/ttrcA,  1859. 

'This  is  such  a  nice  place  that  I  am  going  to  stay  till 
Monday:  an  enormous  old-fiLslii(ine»l  house — full  of  galleries 
and  up  and  down  stairs — but  with  inngiiilicently  large  rooms 
where  wanted  :  the  dniw  ing-rooni  is  a  huge  octagon — I  suppose 
At  least  forty  feet  high — like  the  tower  of  a  castle  (hung  half 


216        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

way  up  all  round  withlarnje  and  beautiful  Turner  and  Raphael 
engravings)  and  with  a  baronial  fireplace : — and  in  the  even- 
ing, brightly  lighted,  with  the  groups  of  girls  scattered  round 
it,  it  is  a  quite  beautiful  scene  in  its  way.  Their  inoniing 
chapel,  too,  is  very  interesting : — though  only  a  large  room, 
it  is  nicely  fitted  with  reading  desk  and  seats  like  a  college 
chapel,  and  two  pretty  and  rich  stained-glass  windows — and 
well -toned  organ.  They  have  morning  prayei-s  with  only  one 
of  the  lessons — and  without  the  psalms :  but  singing  the 
Te  Deum  or  the  otlier  hvnm — and  other  choral  pails :  and 
as  out  of  the  thirty-five  or  forty  girls  perhaps  twenty-five  or 
thirty  have  really  available  voices,  well  trained  and  dinded,  it 
was  infinitely  more  beautiful  than  any  ordinary  church  sei-vice 
— like  the  Trinita  di  IVIonte  Convent  service  more  than  any- 
thing else,  and  must  be  very  good  for  them,  quite  difl'erent  in 
its  effect  on  tlieir  minds  from  our  wretched  penance  of  college 
chapel. 

'  The  house  stands  in  a  superb  park,  full  of  old  trees  and 
sloping  down  to  the  river ;  with  a  steej)  bank  of  trees  on  the 
other  side ;  just  the  kind  of  thing  Mrs.  Sherwood  likes  to 
describe  : — and  the  girls  look  all  healthv  and  happy  as  can 
be,  down  to  the  little  six-years-old  ones,  who  I  find  know  me 
by  the  fairy  tale  as  the  others  do  by  my  large  books : — so  I 
am  quite  at  home. 

'  They  have  my  portrait  in  the  library  with  three  others — 
Maui-ice,  the  Bp.  of  Oxford,  and  Archdeacon  Hare, — so  that 
I  can't  but  stay  with  them  over  the  Suiiday.' 

It  was  not  an  ordinary  school — still  less  a  pcns'ionnat  de 
demoiselles  of  the  type  described  in  '  Le  Crime  de  Sylvestre 
Bonnard,''*  in  which  the  pettiness  and  tyranny  of  the  woi'st 

♦  The  quotation  at  the  head  of  the  chapter  is  one  marked  with 
approvnl  by  Mr.  Kuskin,  who  was  greatly  iuteresteJ  iu  the  book  on  its 
appearance,  not  only  for  its  literary  charm  and  tender  cliaracterisatiou, 
but 'as  tiuding  there  some  image  of  himself  in  the  old  Membre  de 
I'lustitut  with  his  •  bou  dos  rond '  and  his  p;ission  for  missals,  and 
'Jiothic  architecture,  and  Benedictine  muuks,  and  aatural  scenery ;  and 


•ETHICS  OF  THE  DUST'  217 

kind  of  schoolmistress  of — let  us  hope — a  bygone  nge,  are 
pilloriwl.  The  principles  of  Winnington  were  advanccil ;  the 
Ui^-'jlogv, — Bishop  C'olenso's  daughter  wjus  among  the  pupils  : 
'^E  Hishop  of  Oxford  had  intnuiuied  iMr.  Kuskin  to  tiie 
iianagei-s,  wlio  were  pleased  to  invite  the  eelebrateil  art-critic 
to  visit  whenever  he  travelled  that  way,  whether  to  lecture  at 
provincial  towns,  or  to  see  his  friends  in  the  north, as  he  often 
a-ed.  And  so  between  March  1859  and  May  18G8,  after 
which  the  sciiool  was  removed,  he  was  a  frequent  visitor  ;  and 
not  only  he,  but  otlier  lions  whom  the  ladies  entrapped: — 
mention  hius  been  made  in  print  (in  'The  Queen  of  the  Air') 
of  Charles  Halle,  whom  Air.  lluskin  met  there  in  IbGU  and 
greatly  ailniireil. 

'I  like  Mr.  and  Mi^.  Halle  so  very  much,'  he  wTote  home, 
'  and  am  entirely  glad  to  know  so  great  a  musician  and 
evitlently  so  good  and  wise  a  man.  He  was  very  happy 
yesterday  evening,  and  actually  sat  down  and  played 
tiuadriilcs  for  us  to  dance  to — which  is,  in  its  way,  some- 
thing like  Titian  sketching  j)atterns  for  ball-dresses.  Hut 
aflerwarils  he  played  Home,  sweet  Home,  with  three  varia- 
tions— (jiiite  the  most  wonderful  thing  I  have  ever  heard  in 
uiusic.  Though  I  was  close  to  the  j)iano,  the  motion  of  the 
fingers  was  entirely  invisible — a  mere  mist  of  rajiidity;  the 
liaiuh  moving  slowly  and  softly,  and  tlie  variation,  in  the  ear, 
like  a  murmur  of  a  light  fountain,  faraway.  It  was  beautiful 
too  to  see  the  girls'  faces  round,  the  eyes  all  wet  with  feeling, 
and  the  little  coral  mouths  fixed  into  little  half  open  gaps 
with  utter  intensity  of  astonishment.' 

Mr.  Ruskin  could  not  be  idle  on  his  visits;  and  as  he  was 
never  so  liapjjy  as  v>  hen  he  was  teaching  somebody,  he  improved 
the  opportunity  by  experiments  in  a  systeni  of  e<lucation 
'tout  intime  ct  parfaitcment  incompatible  avec  I'organisation 
des  posionnats  Ics  mieux  tenus,'  and  yet  permitted  there  for 


bi*  (Ictiancv  of  tlie  Code  NnpoltW  and  the  ways  of  the  ino<lern  world  ; 
with  luaiiy  auulher  touch  for  which  oue  cuuJd  have  iwoni  he  had  aat  to 


218        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

his  sake.  Among  other  things,  he  devised  singing  dances  for 
a  select  dozen  of  the  girls,  with  verses  of  his  own  writing, 
'  noblement  emues  ^ ;  one,  a  maze  to  the  theme  of  '  Twist  ye, 
twine  ye,'  based  upon  the  song  in '  Guy  Mannering,'  but  going 
far  beyond  the  original  motive  in  its  variations  weighted  with 
allegoric  thought : — 

'  Earnest  Gladness,  idle  Fretting, 
Foolish  Memor}',  wise  Forgetting ; 
And  trusted  reeds,  that  broken  lie, 
Wreathed  again  for  melody.  .  .  . 

'  Vanished  Truth,  but  Vision  staying  f 
Fairy  riches,  lost  in  weighing  ; 
And  fitful  grasp  of  flying  Fate, 
Touched  too  lightly,  traced  too  late.  .  ,  2 

Deep  BZ  the  feeling  of  this  little  poem  is,  there  is  a  nobler 
chord  struck  in  the  Song  of  Peace,  the  battle-cry  of  the  good 
time  coming ;  in  the  faith — who  else  has  found  it  ? — that 
looks  forward  to  no  selfish  victory  of  narrow  aims,  but  to  the 
full  reconciliation  of  hostile  interests  and  the  blind  internecine 
struggle  of  this  perverse  world,  in  the  clearer  light  of  the 
millennial  morning.  '  Thine  arrows  are  sharp  in  the  hearts 
of  the  King's  enemies,  whereby  the  people  fall  under  thee  P — 
'  Yea,  in  all  these  things  we  are  more  than  conquerors,  tlii'ough 
Him  that  loved  us.' 

'  Put  off,  put  off  your  mail,  ye  kings,  and  beat  your  brands  to  dust ; 
A  surer  grasp  your  hands  must  know,  your  hearts  a  better  trust  : 
Nay,  bend  aback  the  lance's  point,  and  break  the  helmet  bar, — 
A  noise  is  on  the  morning  winds,  but  not  the  noise  of  war  ! 

'  Among  the  grassy  mountain-paths  the  glittering  troops  increase  : 
They  come  !  they  come !— how  fair  their  feet — they  come  that  publish 

peace  ; 
Yea,  Victory  1  fair  Victory  !  our  enemies'  and  ours, 
And  all  the  clouds  are  clasped  in  light,  and  all  the  earth  with  flowers. 

'  Ah  !  still  depressed  and  dim  with  dew,  but  yet  a  little  while 
And  radiant  with  the  deathless  Rose  the  wiUleruess  shall  smile, 
And  every  tender  living  thing  shall  feed  by  streams  of  rest, 
No  lamb  shall  from  the  fold  be  lost,  nor  nursling  from  the  nest.' 


•ETHICS  OF  THE  DUST"  210 

Tliese  dances  were  not  mere  play.  They  were  tniipht  as 
lessons,  and  practised  as  recreation.  'On  n'ajjprend  pas  en 
s'aniusant,'  siiys  the  villain  of  the  story  to  M.  Bonnard.  '  On 
n'appri.'nd  qu'en  s'aniusjuit,'  he  replies, — vigorously  underlined 
ami  side-lined  by  Mr.  lluskin.  '  I'ous  digerer  le  savoir,  il 
faut  Tavoir  avale  avec  appetit.'  The  art  of  teaching  is  to 
stimulate  that  appetite  in  a  natural  and  healthy  way.  '  On 
n'est  pas  sur  la  terre  pour  s'aniuser  et  pour  faire  ses  quatre 
cents  volontes,'  says  the  objector,  again ;  to  which  he 
answers :  '  On  est  sur  la  terre  pour  se  plaire  dans  le  beau  et 
dans  le  bien  et  pour  faire  ses  quatre  cents  volontes  quand 
elles  sont  nobles,  spirituelles  et  gtncreuses.  Une  education 
{[ui  n'exerce  pus  les  volontes  est  une  education  qui  deprave  les 
ames.  II  faut' — here  the  pencil-marks  are  very  thick — '  il  faut 
que  Tinstituteur  enseigne  a  vouloir.' 

'  Je  crus  voir,'  continues  M.  Bonnard,  '  que  maitre  Mouche 
niVstiniait  un  pauvre  homme';  and  I  observe  that  Mr. 
Ilu>kiirs  method  of  teaching,  as  illustrated  in  'Ethics  of 
the  l)u^t,'  has  bc»en  variously  pooh-poohed  by  his  critics.  It 
has  seemed  to  some  absurd  to  mix  up  Theology,  and  Crvstnl- 
lography,  anil  Political  Economy,  and  Mythology,  and  Moral 
Philosophy,  with  the  chatter  of  school-girls  and  the  romps  of 
the  ])lavgrouiul.  But  it  shoulil  be  undei-stood,  before  reading 
this  book,  which  is  practically  the  report  of  these  Winnington 
talks,  that  it  is  printed  as  an  illustration  of  a  method.  The 
method  is  the  Kindergarten  method  carried  a  step,  many 
steps,  further.  With  very  small  children  it  is  comparatively 
easv  to  teach  as  a  mother  teaches  ;  but  with  children  of  larger 
growth  it  is  not  the  first-comer  who  can  it-place  the  wise 
father,  whose  convei-sation  and  direction  and  example  would 
form  an  itUal  eilucation.  Still,  an  experiment  like  this  was 
worth  making.  It  showed  that  play-lessons  neetl  not  want 
either  de|)th  or  accuracy ;  and  that  the  requirement  was 
simply  capacity  on  the  part  of  the  teacher. 

The  following  letter  from  Carlylc  was  written  in  acknow- 
ledgment of  an  early  copy  of  the  book,  of  which  the  preface 
is  dated  Christmas,  I8G0. 


220        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

•Chelsea 

'20i)eCl865. 

•Dear  Rtskin, 

'Don't  mind  the  "  Bewick  "  ;*  the  indefatii^ahle  Dixon 
has  sent  me,  yesterday,  the  Bewick's  "  Life"  as  well  (hunted  it 
up  from  the  •'  ]\Iisses  Bewiciv  "  or  somebody,  and  threatens  to 
involve  me  in  still  farther  bother  about  nothing) — and  I  read 
the  greater  part  of  it  last  night  before  going  to  bed.  Peace 
to  Bewick  :  not  a  great  man  at  all ;  but  a  very  true  of  his 
sort,  a  well  completed,  and  a  very  enviable, — living  there  in 
communion  with  the  skies  and  woods  and  brooks,  not  here  in 
d°  with  the  London  Fogs,  the  roaring  witchmongeries  and 
railway  yellings  and  bowlings. 

'  The  "  Etliics  of  the  Dust,"  wh*"  I  devoured  with*  pause, 
and  intend  to  look  at  ag°,  is  a  most  shining  Performance ! 
Not  for  a  long  while  have  I  read  anything  tenth-part  so 
radiant  with  talent,  ingenuity,  lambent  fire  (sheet — and  other 
lightnings)  of  all  commendable  kinds  !  Never  was  such  a 
lecture  on  Crystallographi/  before,  had  there  been  nothing 
else  in  it, — and  there  are  all  manner  of  things.  In  power  of 
expression  I  pronounce  it  to  be  supreme ;  never  did  anybody 
who  had  such  things  to  explain  explain  them  better.  And 
the  bit  of  Egypt"  mythology,  the  cunning  Dreams  ab'  Pthah, 
Neith,  &c,  apart  from  their  elucidative  quality,  wh*"  is  ex- 
quisite, have  in  them  a  poetry  that  might  fill  any  Tennyson 
with  despair.  You  are  very  dramatic  too ;  nothing  wanting 
in  the  stage-direct"%  in  the  pretty  little  indicat"^ :  a  very 
pretty  stage  and  dramatis  persona;  altogeth^  Such  is  my 
first  feeling  ab'  y'  Book,  dear  II. — Come  soon,  and  I  will  tell 
you  all  the  J'aults  of  it,  if  I  gradually  discover  a  great  many. 
In  fact,  come  at  any  rate  1 

•  Y"  ever, 

'  T.  Carlyle.' 

The  Beal  Little  Housewives,  to  whom  the  book  was 
dedicated,  were  not  quite  delighted — at  least,  they  said  they 

♦  Bewick  was  being  studied  by  Mr.  Euskin  in  connection  with  the 
problem  of  the  Pure  Line,  for  '  Cestus  of  Aglaia.' 


•ETHICS  OF  TIIE  DUST'  221 

rcre  not — at  the  portraits  drawn  of  tlicm,  in  their  pinafores, 
so  to  speak,  witli  some  little  hints  at  failing  and  faults  wiiich 
th"y  recofjnised  through  the  mask  of  (Irairuilis  jKr.sonir.  Miss 
'  Kathleen  '  diselaimed  tiie  singing  of  '  Vilikins  and  his  Dinah,' 
and  so  on.  It  is  dillieult  to  pleiuse  evervbody.  The  public 
ihii  not  care  about  the  book  ;  the  publisher  hoped  Mr.  lliiskin 
woulil  write  no  more  dialogues:  and  so  it  remained,  httle 
notiivd,  for  twelve  years.  In  1877  it  was  republished  and 
found  to  be  intciTsting,  and  in  the  next  twelve  years  8,000 
co|)ies  were  talleil  for.  This  was  only  one  of  many  cases  in 
which  Mr.  Kuskiu  vmn  iu  udvauce  of  his  age. 


CHAPTER  VL 

•THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE.'    (1865-1866.) 

'  Still  to  our  gains  our  chief  respect  is  had  : 
Reward  it  is  that  makes  us  good  or  bad.' 

HEKEICK. 

MENTION  has  been  made  of  an  address  to  working  men 
at  the  Camberwell  Institute,  January  24:th,  1865. 
This  lecture  was  published  in  1866,  together  with  two 
others,*  under  the  title  of  'The  Crown  of  Wild  Olive'' — that 
is  to  say,  the  reward  of  human  work,  a  reward  '  which  should 
have  been  of  gold,  had  not  Jupiter  been  so  poor,'  as  Aris- 
tophanes said. 

What  work  is  thus  rewarded  ?  the  speaker  asked.  "What 
reward  is  to  be  hoped  for  ?  And  how  does  it  influence,  how 
ought  it  to  influence,  the  aims  and  the  conduct  of  the  various 
classes  of  men  who  make  up  the  active  world,  the  three  great 
distinct  castes  of  labourers,  traders,  and  soldiers  ?  In  fact, 
these  three  lectures,  on  Work,  Traffic,  and  War, — one  before 
a  suburban  institute,  one  at  a  great  manufacturing  centre, 
and  one  addressed  to  the  young  soldiers  of  Woolwich, — 
sketch  out  Mr.  Ruskin's  political  ethics  in  sequel  to  his 
economy  and  educational  ideals. 

True  work,  he  said,  meant  the  production  (taking  the  word 
production  in  a  broad  sense)  of  the  means  of  life  ;  not  the 
using  of  them  as  mere  counters  for  gambling.  So  that  a 
great  part  of  commerce,  as  it  is  generally  practised,  is  not 

»    ♦  Republished  in  1873,  with  a  fourth  lecture  added,  and  a  Preface 
and  notes  on  the  political  growth  of  Prussia,  from  Carlyle'a  '  Frederick.' 


•THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE'  223 

vork,  and  deserves  no  consideration,  still  less  justification,  by 
Dolitical  science.  On  the  other  hand,  if  true  work  were 
jro|Krly  understowl  and  its  laws  made  plain,  it  would  appear 
:hat  every  one  ought  to  take  some  share  in  it,  according  to 
lis  powers :  some  working  with  the  head,  some  with  the 
lands;  hut  all  acknowledging  itileness  and  slavery  to  he  alike 
mmoral.  And,  as  to  the  remuneration,  he  said,  as  he  had 
«iid  before  in  '  Unto  this  Ijist,'  Justice  demands  that  eijual 
;nergy  expended  shouiil  bring  equal  reward.  He  did  not 
roiisider  it  justice  to  cry  out  for  the  equalization  of  incomes, 
"or  some  are  sure  to  he  more  diligent  and  saving  than  othei-s  ; 
lome  work  involves  a  gi-eat  preliminary  expenditure  of  energy 
n  qualifying  the  worker,  as  contrasted  with  unskilled  labour. 
But  he  did  not  allow  that  the  jwssession  of  capital  entitled 
I  man  to  uneanied  increment ;  and  he  thought  that,  in  a 
•ommunity  where  a  truly  civilized  morality  wjis  highly  de- 
•elopcd,  the  general  sense  of  society  would  recognise  an 
iverage  standard  of  work  and  an  average  staiularii  of  pay 
'or  each  chuss.  Where  all  took  their  share,  many  hands 
vould  make  light  work.  Where  all  receivetl  their  fair  reward, 
dthough  absolute  ei|uality  would  be  imjios-sible,  great  in- 
Kjuality  could  not  prevail,  and  the  struggle  for  life  would  be 
iiinimisetl.  Such  was  his  fii-st  suggestion  for  an  organization 
)f  lal)our,  extremely  ridiculous  tliirty  years  ago ;  not  quite  .so 
idiculous  now. 

In  the  next  two  lectures  he  spoke  of  the  two  great  forms 
)f  riay,  the  great  Games  of  Money-making  and  War.  He 
lad  been  invited  to  lecture  at  Unulford,  in  the  hope  that  he 
vould  give  some  useful  advice  towards  the  design  of  a  new 
exchange  which  was  to  be  built;  in  curious  forgetfulness,  it 
vould  appear,  of  his  work  during  the  past  ten  years  and 
nore.  it  might  have  been  expected,  after  all  he  had  written, 
hat  he  woidJ  have  remarks  to  make  on  the  architecUiie  ot 
in  '  Exchange,'  of  all  places,  which  an  unprepared  audience 
vould  hardly  welcome ;  and  indeed  the  jiicture  he  ilrew  them 
»f  an  ideal  '  Temple  to  the  Gotldc-ss  of  Getting-on  '  waa  as 
laring  a  sermon  aa  ever  prophet  preached.     But  when  he 


224        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

came  to  tell  them  that  the  employers  of  labour  mifjht  be 
true  captains  and  kings,  the  leaders  and  the  helpers  of  their 
fellow-inen,  and  that  the  function  of  commerce  was  not  to 
prey  upon  society  but  to  provide  for  it,  there  were  many  of 
his  hearei-s  whose  hearts  told  them  that  he  was  right,  and 
whose  lives  have  shown,  in  some  measure,  that  he  did  not 
speak  in  vain. 

Still  stranger,  to  hearers  who  had  not  noted  the  conclusion 
of  his  third  volume  of  '  Modern  Painters,'  was  his  view  of 
war,  in  the  address  to  the  Royal  Jlilitary  Academy  at 
Woolwich,  in  December  1865.  The  common  view  of  war  as 
destroyer  of  arts  and  enemy  of  morality,  the  easy  acceptance  of 
the  doctrine  that  peace  is  an  unqualified  blessing,  the  obvious 
evils  of  battle  and  rapine  and  the  wa,ste  of  resources  and  Hfe 
throughout  so  many  ages,  have  blinded  less  clear-sighted 
and  less  widely-experienced  thinkers  to  another  side  of  the 
teaching  of  history,  which  Mr.  Ruskin  dwelt  upon  with 
unexpected  eni]»liasis.  He  showed  that  in  Greece  and  Rome 
and  in  the  IMiddle  Ages,  war  had  brought  out  the  highest 
human  faculties,  and  in  doing  so  had  stimulated  the  arts. 
This  was  not  the  case,  he  said,  in  civil  wars,  such  as  that 
waging  in  America;  though  perhaps  we  may  now  see  that 
even  there  the  great  war  did  eventually  develop  national 
virtues  and  powers  hardly  known  before.  But  he  showed 
that,  as  Bacon  said,  '  No  Body  can  be  healthful  without 
Exercise,  neither  Naturall  Body,  nor  Politique :  and  cer- 
tain! y,  to  a  Kingdom  or  Estate,  a  lust  and  Honourable 
Wai  re,  is  the  true  Exerci.ie.''  As  little  John  Ruskin  had 
written  in  1828,  "'Tis  vice,  not  war,  that  is  the  curse  of 
man  ' :  but  the  aim  of  public  morality  was  to  limit  war  to 
'just  and  honourable '  occasions,  and  to  confine  it  to  those  on 
cillu'r  side  who  had  a  direct  interest  in  it,  and  could  wage  it 
in  a  just  and  honourable  manner. 

It  is  curious  that  Ruskin  the  Goth,  who  had  begun  by 
attacking  the  '  Greek  '  tradition  in  art,  should  now  be  of  all 
men  the  most  complete  exponent  of  the  Greek  spirit  in 
policy.     They    had    permitted    only    their    freemen,    their 


*THE  CROANT^  OF  WILD  OUVE'  225 

pentlcuien,  to  (iulit ;  their  public  mornlitv  called  a  slave  a 
slave,  but  liiil  not  expect  him,  or  allow  hiui,  to  share  in  the 
terrible,  tascinatinjj  jjaine.  And  Mr.  Uuskin  showed  how 
that  [)olicy  was  rewardetl.  But  niotlern  war,  horrible,  not 
from  its  scale,  but  from  the  s|)irit  in  which  the  upper  classes 
set  the  lower  to  fi^ht  like  gladiatore  in  the  arena,  he  de- 
noimced ;  and  called  upon  the  women  of  Eiiijland,  with 
whom,  he  saiil,  the  real  power  of  life  and  death  lay,  to  mend 
it  into  some  semblance  of  anticpie  chivalry,  or  to  end  it  in 
the  name  of  reliijion  and  humanity. 

In  the  Xac  J{tv'u"c  for  March  1892,  there  appeared  a 
series  of  '  Lettei-s  of  John  Uuskin  to  his  Secretary,'  which, 
as  the  anonymous  contributor  remarked,  illustrate  '  Uuskin 
the  worker,  as  he  acts  away  from  the  eyes  of  the  world ; 
Uuskin  the  epistolojirapher,  when  the  eventuality  of  the 
jirintinif-press  is  not  for  the  moment  before  him  ;  Uuskin  the 
gooil  Samaritan,  ever  gentle  and  open-haniled  when  true 
need  and  a  good  cause  make  appeal  to  his  tender  heart; 
Uuskin  the  employer,  consitlerate,  generous — an  ideal  master.' 

Charlis  Augustus  Howell  became  known  to  ^Ir.  Uuskin 
(in  18(J4f  or  l.SGo)  through  the  circle  of  the  Pre-Uapluielites ; 
anil,  as  the  etlitor  of  the  lettei's  j)uts  it,  '  by  his  talents 
and  iussi<luity '  became  the  too-trusted  friend  and  protigt: 
of  Mr.  Uuskin,  Mr.  Gabriel  Uossetti  and  othei-s  of  their 
acquaintance.  It  was  he  who  proposed  and  carried  out  the 
exhumatioji,  reluctantly  consented  to,  of  Uossetti's  manuscript 
jKHMUs  from  ins  wife's  grave,  in  October  18()9 ;  for  which 
curious  service  to  literature  let  him  have  the  thanks  of  pos- 
terity. But  he  was  hardly  the  man  to  carry  out  Mr.  Uuskin's 
Kfcrit  ili.irities,  and  long  bef.ire  he  had  lost  Uossetti's  con- 
fitience*  he  ha. I  cased  to  act  as  .Mr.  Uu^kin"s  .socretarv. 

1-iom  these  letters,  however,  several  interesting  traits  and 
incidents  may  Ik-  gleaned,  such  as  anecdotes  about  the  canary 
which  was  anonymously  boui;ht  at  tlic  Crystal  Palace  Biixl 
Show  (I'ehruary   180(3)   for  the  owner's  bvnelit :    about  the 

*   III  llie  luouurr  iiescril>«l  liv  .Mr.  W.  .M.  Kussotli  at  p.  351,  voL  L, 
2f  '  U.  <^.  Kuaaetti.  his  fiiiuUjr  leitera,'  to  whidi  the  reader  ia  referred. 
U 


226        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKtN 

Bhopboy  whom  Mr.  Ruskin  was  going  to  train  as  an  artist ; 
and  about  tlie  kindly  proposal  to  employ  the  aged  and  im- 
poverished Cruikshank  upon  a  new  book  of  fairy  tales,  and 
the  struggle  between  admiration  for  the  man  and  admission 
of  his  loss  of  power,  ending  in  the  free  gift  of  the  bundled 
pounds  promised. 

In  April  1866,  after  writing  the  Preface  to  '  The  Crown  of 
AVild  Olive,'  and  preparing  the  book  for  publication,  IVIr. 
.  Ruskin  was  carried  oft"  to  the  Continent  for  a  holiday  with 
Sir  Walter  and  Lady  Trevelyan,  her  niece  ]\Iiss  Constance 
Hilliard  (Mrs.  Churchill),  and  Miss  Agnew  (Mrs.  Severn), 
for  a  thorough  rest  and  change  after  three  years  of  uninter- 
niitting  work  in  England.  They  intended  to  spend  a  couple 
of  months  in  Italy.  On  the  day  of  starting,  Mr.  Ruskin 
called  at  Cheyne  Walk  with  the  usual  bouquet  for  ]\lrs. 
Carlyle,  to  learn  that  she  had  just  met  with  her  death,  in 
trying  to  save  her  little  dog,  the  gift  of  Lady  Trevelyan. 
He  rejoined  his  friends,  and  they  crossed  the  Channel  gaily, 
in  spite  of  what  they  thought  was  rather  a  cloud  over  him. 
At  Paris  they  read  the  news.  '  Yes,'  he  said,  '  I  knew.  But 
there  was  no  reason  why  I  should  spoil  your  pleasure  by 
telling  you.' 

After  the  proper  inten-al  he  wrote  to  Carlyle.  The  letter 
of  condolence  brought  the  following  reply,  addressed  '  Poste 
Restante,  Milan '  :— 

•Chelsea, 
'London, 

'  10  May,  1866. 
'  Deak  Ruskin, 

'Y'  kind  words  from  Dijon  were  welcome  to  me: 
thanks.  I  did  not  doubt  y""  sympathy  in  what  has  come ; 
but  it  is  better  that  I  see  it  laid  before  me.  You  are  y'self 
\  ery  unhappy,  as  I  too  well  discern  ;  heavy-laden,  obstructed 
nnd  dispirited  ;  but  you  have  a  great  work  still  ahead ;  and 
will  gradually  have  to  gird  y^self  up  ag^'  the  heat  of  the  day, 
wh**  is  coming  on  for  you, — as  the  night  too  is  coming. 
Think  valiantly  of  these  things.' 


•  THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE '  227 

After  givinij  way  to  his  pi-ief — 'my  life  all  laid  in  ruins, 
and  thu  one  li;;lit  of  it  as  if  jrone  out,' — he  tontiiuies  : — 
'  Come  and  see  me  when  you  get  liome ;  come  oftener  and 
see  me,  and  speak  more  frankly  to  ine  (for  I  am  very  true  to 
y'  highest  interests  and  you)  while  I  still  remain  here.  You 
can  do  nothing  for  me  in  Italy ;  except  come  home  im- 
proved,'— in  health  and  spirits ;  and  so  on. 

Hut  iK'fore  this  letter  reached  ^Ir.  lluskin,  he  too  had  been 
in  the  presence  of  death,  and  had  lost  one  of  his  most  valued 
frieiuls.  Their  journey  to  Italy  had  been  undertaken  chiefly 
for  the  sake  of  Ltuly  Trevelyan's  health,  as  the  following 
extracts  indicate  : — 

'  Paris, 

'irul  May,  1866. 

'  I-ady  Trevclyan  is  much  better  to-day,  but  it  is  not  safe 
to  niove  her  yet — till  to-morrow.  So  I'm  going  to  take  the 
children  to  look  at  Chartres  cathedral — we  can  get  three 
houi-s  there,  and  be  back  to  seven  o'clock  dinner.  We  drove 
round  by  St.  Cloud  and  Sevres  yesterday ;  the  blossomed 
trends  being  glorious  by  the  Seine, — the  children  in  high 
spirits.  It  reminds  me  always  too  much  of  Turner — every 
bend  of  these  rivei-s  is  haunted  by  him.^ 

•  Dijov, 

•  Sunday, 

'&ih  .Vay,  18CS. 
'  Lady  Trevelyan  is  much  better,  and  we  hojie  all  to  get  on 
to  Neufchatel  to-morrow.  The  weather  is  quite  (ine  again 
though  not  warm  ;  and  yesterday  I  took  the  children  for  a 
drive  up  the  little  valley  which  we  used  to  drive  through  on 
leaving  Dijon  for  Paris.  There  are  wooded  hills  on  each 
side,  and  we  got  into  a  sweet  valley,  as  fidl  of  nightingales  aa 
our  giinlen  is  of  thrushes,  and  with  slopes  of  broken  rocky 
ground  above,  covereil  with  the  lovelv  blue  milk-wort,  and 
purple  colund>ines,  and  gei-aniuni,  and  wild  strawberry-flowers. 
The  children  were  intensely  delightwl,  and  I  took  great  care 
that  Constance  shoulil  not  run  about  so  as  to  heat  herself, 
and  we  got  up  considerable  bit  of  hill  quite  nicely,  and  with 
15-2 


228        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

greatly  increased  appetite  for  tea,  and  general  mischief.  They 
have  such  appetites  that  I  generally  call  them  "my  two  little 
pigs."  There  is  a  delightful  French  waiting-maid  at  dinner 
here  —  who  sa^-s  they  are  both  "  charmantes,"  but  highly 
approves  of  my  title  for  them,  nevertheless.' 

'  Neufchatel, 

'  lOth  May,  1866. 
*Lady  Trevelyan  is  still  too  weak  to  move.  We  had 
(the  children  and  I)  a  delightful  day  yesterday  at  the  Pierre 
a  Hot,  gathering  vetches  and  lilies  of  the  valley  in  the  woods, 
and  picnic  afterwards  on  the  lovely  mo.ssy  gi-ass,  in  view  of  all 
the  Alps — Jungfrau,  Eiger,  Blunilis  Alp,  AJtels,  and  the 
rest,  with  intermediate  lake  and  farmsteads  and  apple- 
blossoms — very  heavenly.' 

Here,  within  a  few  days.  Lady  Trevelyan  died.  Through- 
out her  illnes.s  she  had  been  following  the  progress  of  the 
new  notes  on  wild-flowere  (afterwards  to  be  '  Proseqiina") 
with  keen  interest,  and  Sir  Walter  lent  the  help  of  an 
authority  on  botanical  science  to  Mr.  Ruskin's  more  poetical 
and  artistic  observations.  For  the  .sake  of  this  work,  and  for 
the  '  children,'  and  with  a  wise  purpose  of  bearing  up  under 
the  heavy  blow  that  had  fallen,  the  two  friends  continued 
their  journey  for  a  while  among  the  mountains. 

From  Thun,  on  May  21st,  he  could  write  to  Howell,  with 
the  stoicism  he  artects  when  he  least  feels  it : — '  I've  had  a 
rather  bad  time  of  it  at  Neuchatel,  what  with  death  and  the 
north  wind  ;  both  devils  inventions  as  fjir  as  I  can  make  out. 
Rut  things  are  looking  a  little  better  now,  and  I  had  a  lovely 
three  hours'  walk  by  the  lake  shore,  in  cloudless  cahn,  from 
five  to  eight  this  morning,  under  hawthorn  and  chestnut — 
here  just  in  full  blossom,  and  among  other  pleasantnesses — 
too  good  for  mortals,  as  the  north  wind  and  the  rest  of  it  ai-e 
too  bad.  We  don  t  deserve  either  such  blessing  or  cui-sing, 
it  seems  to  poor  moth  me.' 

From  Thun  he  went  to  Interlachen  and  the  Gie.ssbach, 
»ith  his  remaining  friends :  and  he  occupied  himself  closely 


•THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE'  229 

in  tiacinij  Studer's  sections  jicross  the  crrctxi  l.ikc-fiirrow  of 
reiitni!  Swit/crljind — ' sonietliiiijj  cnijjgv  for  his  mind  to 
break  u|)on,'  lus  Byron  said  when  he  wiis  in  troiihle.  At  the 
Gies-shmh  tiiere  wius  not  onlv  geoU)!iv  nnd  (hvine  sccncrv, 
enjoyable  in  lovely  weather,  but  an  in^ei-esting  (if^iire  in  the 
forij^iound,  the  wiilowed  dausjhter  of  the  hotel  landlord, 
beautiful  and  consumptive,  but  brave  as  a  Swiss  jjirl  should 
be.  They  all  seem  to  have  fallen  in  love  with  her,  so  to 
speak  ;  the  young  English  girls  as  much  as  the  impression- 
able art-critic :  and  the  new  human  interest  in  her  Alpine 
tragedy  relieved,  as  such  interests  do,  the  painfulness  of  the 
cinumstances  through  which  they  had  been  passing.  Iler 
sister  Marie  was  like  an  Allcgra  to  this  Penserosa ;  bright 
and  brilliant  in  native  genius.  She  played  piuno-duets  with 
the  young  ladies;  taught  Alpine  botany  to  the  savants; 
guided  them  to  the  secret  dells  and  unknown  points  of  view  ; 
and  with  a  sympathy  unexpected  in  a  stninger,  beguiled 
them  out  of  their  grief,  and  won  their  admiration  and 
gratitude.  Marie  of  the  Giessbach  was  often  referred  to  in 
Ifttei-s  of  the  time,  and  for  many  yeare  after,  with  warmly 
aBectionate  ix-membrances. 

A  few  bits  from  his  letters  to  his  mother,  wliich  I  have 
been  permitted  to  copy,  will  indicate  the  impressions  of  this 
summers  tour. 

'II6TEL  Du  OrE^mcn, 

'  filh  June,  1866. 
'  My  pkarfst  MorirEii, 

'  Can  you  at  all  fancy  walking  out  in  the  morning  in  a 
garden  full  of  lilacs  just  in  rich  bloom,  and  pink  hawthorn  in 
nia.«<ses;  and  along  a  little  terrace  with  lovelv  pinks  coming  into 
;  luster  of  colour  all  over  the  low  wall  beside  it;  and  a  slo|)ing 
lijink  of  green  sward  from  it — anil  Ix-low  that,  the  Giesbach  ! 
Fancy  having  a  real  Alpine  waterfall  in  one's  garden, — seven 
hurulre<l  feet  high.  You  sec,  we  are  just  in  time  for  the 
spring,  hei-c,  and  the  strawberries  are  ri|)ening  on  the  rocks. 
Joan  »nd  Constance  have  In-en  just  scrambling  about  and 
gathr ' ing  them  for  me.    Then  there's  the  blue-green  lake  below. 


230        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

and  Interlaken  and  the  lake  of  Thun  in  the  distance.  I  think 
I  never  saw  anything  so  beautiful.  Joan  will  write  to  you  about 
the  people,  whom  she  has  made  great  friends  with,  already.' 

'  1th  June,  1866. 

'  I  cannot  tell  you  how  much  I  am  struck  with  the  beauty 
of  this  fall :  it  is  different  from  everything  I  have  ever  seen 
in  torrents.  There  are  so  many  places  where  one  gets  near  it 
without  being  wet,  for  one  thing ;  for  the  falls  are,  mostly, 
not  vertical  so  as  to  fly  into  mere  spray,  but  over  brokeji  rock, 
which  crushes  the  water  into  a  kind  of  sugar-candy-like  foam, 
white  as  snow,  yet  glittering ;  and  composed,  not  of  bubbles, 
but  of  broken-up  v/ater.  Then  I  had  forgotten  that  it 
plunged  straight  into  the  lake  ;  I  got  down  to  the  lake  shore 
on  the  other  side  of  it  yesterday,  and  to  see  it  plunge  clear 
into  the  blue  water,  with  the  lovely  mossy  rocks  for  its  flank, 
and  for  the  lake  edge,  was  an  unbelievable  kind  of  thing ;  it 
is  all  as  one  would  fancy  cascades  in  fairyland.  I  do  not  often 
endure  with  patience  any  cockneyisms  or  showings  off  at  these 
lovely  places.  But  they  do  one  thing  here  so  interesting  that 
I  can  forgive  it.  One  of  the  chief  cascades  (about  midway  up 
the  hill)  falls  over  a  projecting  rock,  so  that  one  can  walk 
under  the  torrent  as  it  comes  over.  It  leaps  so  clear  that  one 
is  hardly  splashed,  except  at  one  place.  Well,  when  it  gets 
dark,  they  burn,  for  five  minutes,  one  of  the  strongest  steady 
fireworks  of  a  crimson  colour,  behind  the  fall.  The  red  light 
shines  right  through,  tuining  the  whole  waterfall  into  a 
torrent  of  fire.' 

'lUA  J«n«,  1866. 

'We  leave,  according  to  our  programme,  for  Interlachen 
to-day, — with  great  regret,  for  the  peace  and  sweetness  of 
this  place  are  wonderful,  and  the  people  are  good  ;  and 
though  there  is  much  drinking  and  quarrelling  among  the 
younger  men,  there  appears  to  be  neither  distressful  poverty, 
nor  deliberate  crime  :  so  that  there  is  more  of  the  sense  I 
need,  and  long  for,  of  fello^^ship  with  human  creatures,  than 
in  any  place  I  have  been  at  for  years.     I  believe  they  don't 


•THE  CROWN  OF  WILD  OLIVE'  231 

M  imuh  as  lock  the  house-doors  at  niplit ;  and  the  faces  of  the 
olilir  iJiii.-aiitiy  arc  rt-nlly  very  beautiful.  I  have  donea<;ood 
deal  of  hutiiiiy,  ami  fiiul  that  wild-flowcr  hotanv  is  more  or 
less  cxhaustihie,  hut  the  luitivated  flowers  are  infinite  in  their 
caprice.  The  forf;et-nie-nots  and  milkworts  are  sinfjularly 
beautiful  here,  but  there  is  quite  as  much  variety  in  English 
fieitls  as  in  these,  as  long  as  one  does  not  climb  much — and 
I'm  very  lazy,  compared  to  what  I  used  to  be.' 

'LACTERIlRrNNRN, 

'  IMhJuiK,  186a 
'  We  had  a  lovelv  evening  here  yesterday,  and  the  children 
enjoyed  and  understood  it  better  than  anything  they  have  yet 
Been  among  the  Alps.  Constance  was  in  great  glory  in  a 
little  walk  I  took  her  in  the  twilight  through  the  upper 
meadows  :  the  Staubbach  seen  only  as  a  grey  veil  suspended 
from  its  rock,  and  the  great  Alps  pale  above  on  the  dark  sky. 
She  coniicscen<lcd  nevertheless  to  gather  a  great  bunch  of  the 
white  catchfly, — to  make  "  jxjps''  with, — her  friend  Marie  at 
the  Giesbach  having  shown  her  how  a  startling  detonation 
may  be  obtained,  by  skilful  management,  out  of  its  globular 
calyx. 

'  This  morning  is  not  so  promising, — one  of  the  provoking 
ones  which  will  neither  let  you  stay  at  home  with  resignation, 
nor  go  anywhere  with  pleasure.  I'm  going  to  take  the 
children  for  a  little  quiet  exploration  of  the  AVengern  path, 
to  see  how  they  like  it,  and  if  the  weather  bettei-s — we  may 
go  on.  At  all  events  I  hope  to  find  an  Alpine  rose  or 
two.' 

In  June  ISfifi  the  Profcssoi-ship  of  Poetry  at  Oxford  was 
vacant;  and  Mr.  Huskin's  frienils  were  anxious  to  see  him 
take  the  j)o>t.  lie,  however,  felt  no  especial  (itness  or 
inclination  for  it,  and  the  proposal  fell  through.  Three 
years  later  he  was  elected  to  a  Professorship  that  at  this 
time  had  not  been  founded.     'Tout  vient  i  (|ui  sait  attendre.' 

AAer  spending  June  in  the  Oberland,  he  went  homewards 


232        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

through  Beme,  Vevey  and  Geneva,  to  find  his  private  secretary 
with  a  bundle  of  ben;sjing  letters,  and  his  friend  Carlyle  busy 
with  the  defence  of  Governor  Evre. 

In  18G5  an  insurrection  of  negroes  at  Morant  Bay,  Jamaica., 
had  threatened  to  take  the  most  serious  shape,  when  it  was 
stamped  out  by  the  high-handed  measures  of  Mr.  Fvre. 
After  the  first  congratulations  were  over  another  side  to  the 
question  called  for  a  hearing.  The  Baptist  missionaries 
declared  that  among  the  negroes  who  were  shot  and  hanged 
171  terrorem  were  peaceable  subjects,  respectable  members  of 
their  o\vn  native  congregations,  for  whose  character  they 
could  vouch :  they  added  that  the  gravity  of  the  situation 
had  been  exaggerated  by  private  enmity  and  jealousy  of  their 
work  and  creed :  and  sympathisers  at  home  pointed  out 
that  the  executions  were  not  even  'judicial'  murders,  since 
Mr.  E)Te  was  not  governor  of  Jamaica,  and  realjv  had  no 
right  to  take  extreme  measures.  A  strong  committee  wa.s 
formed  under  Liberal  auspices,  supported  by  such  men  as 
John  Stuart  IVIiil  and  Thomas  Hughes,  the  author  of  '  Tom 
Brown's  Schooldays'' — men  whose  motive  was  above  suspicion 
— to  bring  Mr.  Eyre  to  account. 

Carlyle,  who  admired  the  strong  hand,  and  had  no  interest 
in  Baptist  missionaries,  accepted  Mr.  Evre  as  the  saviour  of 
society  in  his  AVest  Indian  sphere ;  and  there  were  many, 
both  in  Jamaica  and  at  home,  who  believed  that,  but  for  his 
prompt  action,  the  white  population  would  have  been 
massacred  with  all  the  horrors  of  a  savage  rebellion.  Mr. 
Ruskin  had  been  for  many  years  the  ally  of  the  Broad 
Church  and  Liberal  party  ;  he  had  supported  the  candida- 
ture of  ]\Ir.  Mill  and  Mr.  Hughes  in  ^Vestminster  and 
Lambeth.  But  he  was  now  coming  more  and  more  under 
the  personal  influence  of  Carlyle;  and  when  it  came  to  the 
point  of  choosing  sides,  declared  himself,  in  a  letter  to  the 
Dally  Telegraph  (Dec.  20th,  1865)  a  Conservative  and  a  sup- 
porter of  order;  and  joined  the  Eyre  Defence  Committee 
with  a  subscription  of  dPlOO.  The  prominent  pait  he  took, 
for  example  in  the  meeting  of  September  1866,  was  no  doubt 


•THE  CRO^VN  OF  WILD  OLIVE'  233 

forced  upon  him  by  his  desire  to  save  Carlvle,  whose  recent 
loss  and  shaken  nerves  made  such  business  es|)ecially  trvin}? 
to  him.  Lettere  of  this  period  remain,  in  which  Carlyle 
bepp  Iluskin  to  'be  dihi^ent,  I  bid  \ou  !'  —  and  so  on, 
adding  '  I  must  absokitclv  xhiit  up  in  that  direction,  to 
«ive  my  sanity.'  And  so  it  fell  to  tlie  youni;:er  man  to 
work  through  piles  of  pamjildets  and  newspaiK-r  corre- 
spondence, to  interview  politicians  and  men  of  business,  and 
— what  was  so  very  foivi^n  to  his  habits — to  take  a  leading 
share  in  a  party  aj^itation. 

But  in  all  this  he  was  true  to  his  Jacobite  instincts.  He 
had  been  brought  up  a  Tory ;  and  though  he  had  drifted 
into  an  alliance  with  the  Broad  Church  and  philo.sophical 
Liberals,  he  was  never  one  of  them.  Now  that  his  father  was 
gone,  perhaps  he  felt  a  .sort  of  dutv  to  own  himself  his  father's 
son  ;  and  the  failure  of  liberal  philanthropy  to  realize  his 
ideals,  and  of  liberal  philosophy  to  rise  to  his  economic 
standards,  combined  with  Carlyle  to  induce  him  to  label 
himself  Conservative.  But  his  conservatism  could  not  be 
accei)ted  by  the  party  so  called.  Fortunately,  he  did  not 
need  or  ask  their  recognition.  He  took  no  real  interest  in 
party  politics,  and  never  in  his  life  voted  at  a  Parliamentary 
election.  He  only  meant  to  state  in  the  shortest  terms  that 
he  fitoud  for  lojalt^-  aud  order. 


CHAPTER  Vn. 

•TIME  AND  TIDE.'    (1867.) 

•Tea,  the  voiceless  wrath  of  the  wretched 
And  their  unlearned  discontent, 
We  must  give  it  voice  and  wisdom, 
Till  the  waiting-tide  be  spent.' 

W.  Morris,  Poems  hy  the  Wap. 

DEAR  Ruskin,'  writes  Carlvle  from  IVIentone*  (Feb- 
ruary 15th,  1867),  '  if  the"  few  bits  of  letters  I  have 
written  from  tliis  place  had  gone  by  the  natural 
priority  and  sequence,  this  would  have  been  tlie  first,  or 
among  the  very  first: — and  indeed  it  is  essentially  so — the 
first  that  I  have  written  except  upon  compulsion,  or  in  answer 
to  something  written.  My  aversion  to  winting  is  at  all  times 
great.  But  I  begin  to  feel  a  great  want  of  having  some  news 
from  you,  at  least  of  hearing  that  you  are  not  fallen  imu-ell ; 
and  there  is  no  other  method  of  arousing  you  to  yoiur  duty.' 

He  goes  on  to  tell  how  '  the  impetuous  Tyndall  tore  me 
out  from  the  sleety  mud  abysses  of  London,  as  if  by  the  hair 
of  the  head;  and  dropped  me  here':  and  then  follows  a  long 
etory  about  the  place  and  the  people.     At  last : — 

'  Often  I  begin  to  think  of  my  route  home  ag",  and  what  I 
Bhall  next  do  then.  .  .  .  The  only  point  I  look  forward  to 
with  any  fixed  satisfact"  as  yet,  is  that  of  having  Ruskin 

♦  The  letter  mentioned  in  '  Time  and  Tide,'  letter  6  :  '  I  heard  from 
bim  last  week  at  Mentone,'  eta 


♦TIME  AND  TIDE'  235 

again  cvc^  Wcdii"  cv^,  and  tastinpf  a  little  human  con>C'rsnt" 
oiiie  in  the  wetk,  if  oftencr  be  not  pinitiiable  !  .  .  .  Adiiu 
my  Frienil,  I  want  a  little  Note  tVoni  you  qiimn  pr'imum.  I 
send  many  rejjaids  to  the  good  and  tlear  old  lady,  and  am 
ever 

*  Y"  gratefully, 

•T.  Carlyle.' 

One  reason  why  Mr.  Ruskin  had  not  written  was,  perhaps, 
that  he  had  aheaily  begun  the  series  of  letters  published  as 
'  Time  and  Tide  by  Weare  and  Tyne,'  which  is  the  same 
thing  as  saying  that  he  was  engaged  ujion  a  new  and  im- 
portant book.  The.se  lettei-s  were  addre.sseil*  to  Thomas 
Dixon,  a  working  cork-cutter  of  Sunderland,  whose  portrait 
by  Piofessor  I.*gros  is  familiar  to  visitors  at  the  South 
Kensington  Museum.  He  was  one  of  tho.se  thoughtful,  self- 
cducatetl  working  men  in  whom,  as  a  class,  Mr.  lluskin  had 
been  taking  a  deep  interest  for  the  jiast  twelve  yeai-s,  an 
interest  which  had  purcha.sed  him  a  practical  insight  into 
their  various  capacities  and  aims,  and  the  right  to  speak 
without  fear  or  favour.  At  this  time  there  was  an  agitation 
for  Parliamentary  refomi,  and  the  better  representation  of 
the  workii"  classes;  and  it  was  on  this  topic  that  the  letters 
were  begun,  though  the  writer  went  on  to  criticise  the  various 
social  iileals  then  po|)ular,  and  to  jiropose  his  own.  He  had 
already  done  .something  of  the  sort  in  'Unto  this  Ijisf; 
but  '  Time  and  Tide '  is  much  more  complete,  and  the  result 
of  seven  years'  farther  thought  and  ex|)erience.  His  '  Tors 
Clavigera'  is  a  continuation  of  these  letters,  but  written  at 
a  time  when  other  work  and  ill  health  broke  in  upon  his 
strength.  'Time  and  Tide'  is  not  only  tlie  statement  of  his 
social  scheme  as  he  .saw  it  in  liis  central  periotl,  but,  written 
as  these  letters  were — at  a  stroke,  so  to  s|ieak — condensed  in 
exposition  and  simple  in  language,  they  desene  the  most 
careful  reading  by  the  student  of  Huskin. 

*  During  February,  Mnrrh  niiil  April,  1S67,  and  publinheJ  in  tba 
Uanchtttcr  Examiner  and  LfeJi  Mercury. 


236        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

ITie  earlier  letters  are  mainly  a  criticism  of  popular  ideals, 
and  the  panaceas  which  were  prescribed  for  the  Body  I'oUtic. 
There  was  Parliamentary  Reform,  there  was  Co-operahion,  as 
popularly  understood,  and  there  was  the  Redistribution  of 
Land,  already  beginning  to  be  demanded ;  all  these  he 
criticised  as  inadequate.  The  mere  preaching  of  Thrift,  of 
Education  and  of  Religion  he  regarded  as  a  delusion  or  a 
mockerv.     Competition  and  laissez-faire  he  denounced. 

TheTi  he  proceetied  to  construct  his  own  ideal,  as  I'laio  had 
done  •  n  his  '  Republic,''  only  within  stricter  limits.  He  points 
out  repeatedly  that  this  is  an  ideal,  and  not  a  suggestion  for 
immediate  adoption;  and  yet  it  differs  from  other  people's 
Utopias  in  being  far  nearer  realization.  It  is,  indeed — 
though  he  does  not  definitely  say  so — based  on  a  system 
which  has  already  worked  well,  the  system  by  which  the 
barbarian  Teutonic  tribes  and  degraded  Latin  races  of  the 
lower  empire,  were  gradually  developed  into  the  great 
kingdoms  of  Europe,  evolving  the  religion,  laws,  arts  and 
sciences  which  the  Renaissance  found  at  its  coming.  And  if 
it  be  true  that  we  are  now  in  much  the  same  position,  mutatis 
mutandis,  as  in  Charlemagne's  days— our  degenerate  '  upper 
classes'  with  their  Renaissance  culture  and  traditions  re- 
presenting the  Roman  element,  and  our  discontented  '  lower 
classes,'  with  their  restlessness  and  vitality  and  overwhelming 
preponderance  representing  the  invaders — if  the  problem  be 
to  weld  these  into  a  new  cohesion,  and  out  of  them  to  create 
a  new  civilization,  then  it  was  surely  well  tliought  of,  to 
apply  the  ancient  cure,  mutatis  mutandis,  to  the  parallel  case. 

To  state  the  ideal  constitution  as  shortly  and  conveniently 
as  possible,  we  might  put  it  under  four  heads,  thou.;h  the 
author  does  not  so  divide  it ;  but  he  seems  to  have  adopted, 
and  adapted,  from  the  Middle  Ages  their  guild  system, 
their  chivalry,  their  church,  and  something  of  their  feudal 
scheme. 

To  get  entirely  rid  of  competition,  he  proposed  an 
organisation  of  labour  akin  to  the  ancient  guilds,  which  he 
regarded  as  the  combination,  in  each  trade  and  in  every  kind 


'TIME  AiND  TIDE'  237 

of  Ml  an  1 1  fact  I  ire,  nsTicultuic  and  art,  of  all  the  masters  with 
all  the  men.  15ut  while  the  old  guilds  were  local,  he  would 
have  them  univii->:d.  By  their  own  rules,  and  for  their  own 
advant.ige,  they  would  secure  good  workmanship,  honest 
production  ;  they  wouUl  fix  fair  wages  for  their  men  and 
proviile  against  the  hankruptcy  of  their  members  who  were 
masters.  Retail  traile  woulil  be  neither  precarious  nor  de- 
grading if  it  were  carried  on  by  the  .siilaried  officers  of  the 
guild.  ITie  workman,  holiling  a  well-defined  position,  and 
possessing  some  share  of  control,  through  the  trade  council, 
over  his  work  and  his  wages,  would  have  no  ground  for 
discontent.  And  the  masters,  for  Carlyle's  Elisha  had  no 
idea  of  a  worlil  without  masters,  would  be  '  captains  of 
labour,'  the  friends  and  not  the  enemies  of  their  men ;  with 
their  superior  talents  recognised  and  used,  not  without  a 
certain  pecuniary  advantage,  but  without  that  disproportion 
of  income,  and  of  responsibility,  which  is  the  plague  of 
modern  conuiierce  and  maiuifacture. 

IJook-learning  was  not  Mr.  lluskin's  notion  of  education : 
and  while  he  would  have  everybody  educated,  he  would  not 
make  every  boy  and  girl  learned,  for,  as  Sylvestre  Bonnard 
says,  lie  wishe<l  them  well.  The  phy.sical  and  moral  education 
he  pro|)osed  would  make  finer  ci-eatures  of  them  ;  would  go 
a  long  way,  of  itself,  to  eradicate  disease  and  stupidity  and 
vulgarity.  To  do  this  more  eflectunlly  he  proposed  to 
ngulate  marriage  by  j)erniitting  it  only  to  those  young 
people  who  hail  (|unlif!ed  themselves  by  attaining  a  certain 
standard  of  general  physical  and  moral  culture — 'bachelors' 
and  'rosiiixs'  they  might  be  dubbed,  on  the  analogy  of 
chivalry.  To  ensure  the  suflicicnt  and  yet  frugal  bringing 
up  of  a  family,  he  would  secure  them  an  income  from  the 
st.ite,  if  necessiuy,  for  the  (ii-st  seven  years;  or,  if  they  were 
of  the  wealthier  class,  keep  them  down  to  that  income,  and 
rocrxe  the  siiiplus  for  their  use  later  on.  Indeed  he  would 
limit  all  incomes  to  some  fixed  maximum  ;  on  attaining 
which,  if  a  man  were  inde[K'ndent,  he  might  retire,  to  pursue 
his  own  hobbies  or  to  serve  the  state.     But,  in  his  PoUty,  it 


238        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

would  be  the  part  of  gentlefolks — for  some  would  still  be 
unavoidably  both  wealthier  and  more  refined  than  others — 
to  set  the  example  of  plain  living  and  high  thinking. 

As  to  the  church,  that,  as  in  the  '  Notes  on  Sheepfolds,'  was 
to  be  strictly  a  state-church,  in  the  sense  that  such  officers  as 
it  possessed  would  be  salaried  by  the  government ;  and  that 
their  work  would  be  in  harmony  with  the  state,  not  opposed 
to  it,  nor  independent  of  it,  in  sects  and  schisms.  These 
clergy  would  be  confined  to  pastoral  care,  and  have  no  right 
to  preach  their  varying  views  of  dogma.  Names,  of  course, 
matter  nothing  in  schemes  of  this  sort ;  but  in  calling  these 
officers  '  Bishops '  and  suggesting  that  they  should  have  the 
oversight  of  a  hundred  families  each,  Mr.  Ruskin  points  to 
the  practice  of  the  primitive  church.  Though  at  this  time 
he  had  renounced  any  definite  adhesion  in  orthodox  religion, 
he  did  not  think  that  human  nature,  as  a  whole,  would  or 
could  become  completely  irreligious;  but  he  leaves  it  quite 
open  to  the  families  of  his  ideal  state  whether  they  will 
admit  the  administrations  of  their  bishops,  or  not. 

Finally,  he  adapted  the  feudalism  of  the  Middle  Ages 
in  the  sense  that  the  whole  body  politic  would  be  distinctly 
organic,  and  not  anarchic  :  that  its  organisation  would  be 
based  on  a  military  scheme.  He  had  said,  in  '  The  Crown  of 
Wild  Olive,'  that  a  military  despotism  is  the  only  cure  for 
a  diseased  society ;  and  while  minimising  the  occasions  and 
opportunities  for  war,  he  felt  that,  to  effect  the  development 
of  the  present  'Dark  Age'  into  a  more  perfect  civilisation, 
some  use  of  force  would  be  necessary  in  the  administration. 
Believing  strongly  in  human  nature,  he  did  not  pretend  that 
everybody  is  virtuous.  Laws  must  be  made,  and  laws  must 
be  administered  :  and  to  do  this  effectively  requires  the  strong 
hand.  In  his  state  every  man  would  be  a  soldier  (as  in 
Switzerland) ;  but  just  as  in  the  guilds  some  would  necessarily 
be  differentiated  into  mastership,  so,  in  the  whole  of  society, 
individuals  and  families  would  rise  into  eminence  and  take 
the  lead.  And  as  the  captains,  judges,  bishops,  and  school- 
masters would  be  salaried  state  officials,  so  to  these  distin- 


•TIME  AND  TIDE'  239 

fished  men  and  fiiniilics  he  would  be  glad  to  assign  suth 
inodorate  inionus  ils  inij^ht  keep  tliein  in  the  public  service, 
with  such  estates  in  land  as  might  afl'ord  them  the  means  of 
2xem|)litving  the  arts  and  graces  of  life;  not  to  be  landlonls, 
but  only  the  tenants  of  the  state,  just  as  the  agriculturists, 
through  their  guild,  are  to  have  the  use  of  the  soil  rent-free. 

Such,  in  rough  outline,  is  the  ideal  commonwealth  of 'Time 
and  Tide.'  The  scheme  has  the  support  of  historical  analogy : 
it  is  in  harmony  with  modern  scientific  views  of  the  evolution 
of  mankind  ;  it  is  elastic  enough  to  give  play  to  the  varying 
aims  of  individuals  and  classes;  and  since  it  docs  not  premise 
universal  virtue,  nor  promise  universal  happinesii,  it  is  not 
rightly  described  jus  Utopian. 

Uefore  this  work  was  ended,  Carlyle  had  come  back  to 
Chelsea,  and  was  begging  his  friend,  in  the  warmest  terms, 
to  come  and  see  him.  Shortly  afterward,  a  passage  which 
Mr.  Uuskin  would  not  retract  gave  offence  to  Carlyle.  But 
the  difference  was  healed,  and  later  letters  reveal  the  sage  of 
Chelsea  just  as  kindly  and  affectionate  as  ever.  It  is  a  poor 
friendship  that  is  broken  by  a  free  speech  :  and  this  friend- 
ship, between  the  two  greatest  writers  of  their  age,  between 
two  men,  we  may  add,  of  vigorous  individuality,  outspoken 
opinions,  and  widely  ditferent  ttistes  and  sympathies,  is  a  fine 
ejjisode  in  the  history  of  both. 

In  Mav,  Mr.  Uuskin  was  invited  to  Cambridge  to  receive 
the  honorary  degroc  of  LL.D.,  and  to  deliver  the  llede 
I.ectui-e.  Tlie  Cumlirid^-e  Chronicle  of  May  25th,  18(57, 
says:  'The  body  of  the  Senate  House  was  (piite  filled  with 
M.A.'s  and  ladies,  principally  the  latter,  whilst  there  was  a 
large  attendance  of  undergraduates  in  the  galleries,  who  gave 
the  lecturer  a  most  enthusiastic  reception.'  A  brief  report 
of  the  lecture  was  printed  in  the  newspaper;  but  it  was 
not  othenvise  published,  and  the  manuscript  seems  to  have 
l)cen  mislaid  for  thirty  \ears.  I  take  the  liberty  of  copying 
the  opening  .sentences  as  a  .specimen  of  that  Academical 
onitorv  which  Mr.  Uuskin  then  adojited,  and  used  habitually 
in  his  earlier  lectures  at  Uxfoj-d. 


240        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

The  title  of  the  discourse  was  '  The  Relation  of  National 
Ethics  to  National  Arts.' — '  In  entering  on  the  duty  to  day 
entrusted  to  me,  I  should  hold  it  little  r>^spectful  to  my 
audience  if  I  disturbed  them  by  expression  of  the  diffidence 
■which  they  know  that  I  must  feel  in  first  speaking  in  this 
Senate  House ;  diffidence  which  might  well  have  prevented 
me  from  accepting  such  duty,  but  ought  not  to  interfere 
with  my  endeavour  simply  to  fulfil  it.  Nevertheless,  lest 
the  direction  which  I  have  been  led  to  give  to  my  discourse, 
and  the  narrow  limits  within  which  I  am  compelled  to  confine 
the  treatment  of  its  subject  may  seem  in  anywise  inconsistent 
with  the  purpose  of  the  founder  of  this  Lecture — or  with  the 
expectations  of  those  by  whose  authority  I  am  appointed  to 
deliver  it,  let  me  at  once  say  that  I  obeyed  their  command, 
not  thinking  myself  able  to  teach  any  dogma  in  the  philosophy 
of  the  arts,  which  could  be  of  anv  new  interest  to  the  members 
of  this  University  :  but  only  that  I  might  obtain  the  sanction 
of  their  audience,  for  the  enforcement  upon  other  minds  of 
the  truth,  which — after  thirty  years  spent  in  the  study  of  art, 
not  dishonestly,  however  feebly — is  manifest  to  me  as  the 
clearest  of  all  that  I  have  learned,  and  urged  upon  me  as  the 
most  vital  of  all  I  have  to  declare.' 

He  then  distinguished  between  true  and  false  art,  the  tnie 
depending  upon  sincerity,  whether  in  literature,  music  or  the 
formative  arts  :  he  reinforced  his  old  doctrine  of  the  dignity 
of  true  imagination  as  the  attribute  of  healthy  and  earnest 
minds ;  and  energetically  attacked  the  commercial  art-world 
of  the  day,  and  the  notion  that  drawing-schools  were  to  be 
supported  for  the  sake  of  the  gain  they  would  bring  to  our 
manufacturers.  '  INIr.  Ruskin  concludeil  his  lecture,'  says  the 
Chronicle,  '  with  a  very  fine  peroration,  the  first  part  of  which 
he  addressed  to  the  younger  members  of  the  academic  bodv, 
the  second  to  the  elder.  On  the  younger  men  he  urged  the 
infinite  importance  of  a  life  of  virtue  and  the  fact  that  the 
hereafter  must  be  spent  in  God's  presence  or  in  darkness. 
Their  time  in  this  miracle  of  a  universe  was  but  as  a  moment ; 
with  one  brief  astounded  gaze  of  awe  they  looked  on  all 


•TIME  AND  TIDE'  241 

around  tlicin — saw  the  planets  roll,  heard  tlic  soiird  of  the 
sea,  niul  behelil  the  surrouiulings  of  tlie  earth  ;  thev  were 
opeiieil  for  a  moment  as  a  sheet  of  li^Iitninpj,  niul  tlieii 
instantly  closed  again.  Their  hijjhest  ambition  iluring  no 
short  a  stiiy  should  be  to  be  known  for  what  they  were — to 
spend  those  p;litterin<;  days  in  view  of  what  was  to  eonie  after 
them.  Then  on  the  Mastei-s  of  this,  whiih  h.id  for  years 
l)eeu  pre-eminent  as  the  school  of  science,  he  urged  that  their 
continued  |)rosi)erity  must  rest  on  tlieir  observance  of  the 
conunnnd  of  their  Divine  Master,  in  whose  name  they  existed 
as  a  society — "  Seek  ye  first  the  kingdom  of  God  and  His 
righteousness."  .  .  .  All  mere  abstract  knowledge,  indepen- 
dent of  its  tendency  to  a  holy  life,  was  useless.  .  .  His 
concluding  remarks  were  an  eloquent  exhortation  to  the 
seniors  diligently  to  perform  the  solenm  trust  given  to  them 
in  the  |)roving  of  youth — "  Lead  them  not  into  temptation, 
but  deliver  them  from  evil." 

'  Long  and  hearty  cheers  greeted  the  leanicil  lecturer 
from  all  part.s  of  the  Senate  House  as  he  resumed  his  scat.' 

In  this  lecture  we  .see  the  germ  of  the  ideas,  as  well  as  the 
beginning  of  tjje  style,  of  the  Oxford  Inaugural  coui^se,  and 
the  'Eagle's  Nest';  something  quite  diH'ererit  in  tvpe  from 
the  style  and  teaching  of  the  addresses  to  working  men,  or  to 
mixed  popidar  auiliences  at  Edinbui-gh  or  Manchester,  or 
even  at  the  Uoyal  Institution.  At  this  latter  place,  on 
June  4th,  Sir  Henry  Holland  in  the  chair,  he  lectureil  on 
• 'llie  ['resent  State  of  Modern  Art,  with  reference  to  advis- 
able arrangement  of  the  National  Gallery,'  repeating  nuuh  of 
what  he  had  sjiid  in  'Time  anil  Tide'  about  the  taste  for  the 
horrible  and  absence  of  tiiic  feeling  for  pure  and  digni('«i  art 
in  the  theatrical  shows  of  the  day,  anil  in  the  admiration  for 
Gustave  Dorc,  then  a  new  fa.shion.  Mr.  lluskin  cou'd  never 
endure  that  the  man  who  liail  illustratc>il  Hal/ac's  'Contes 
Drolatiques'  should  be  cho.sen  by  the  religious  public  of 
England  as  the  exponent  of  their  most  saci-ed  asj)irations 
and  itleals. 

Ill  .Itdy  he  went  to  Kesw ick  for  a  few  weeks,  from  whence 
16 


242        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

he  wrote  the  rhymed  letters  to  his  cousin  at  home,  quoted 
(with  the  date  wrongly  given  as  1857)  in  '  Praeterita '  to  illus- 
trate his  '  heraldic  character'  of  '  Little  Pigs'  and  tj  shock 
exoteric  admirers.  Like,  for  example,  Rossetti  and  Carlyle, 
Mr.  Ruskin  was  fond  of  playful  nicknames  and  grotesque 
terms  of  endearment.  He  never  stood  upon  his  dignity  with 
intimates;  and  was  ready  to  allow  the  liberties  he  took, 
much  to  the  surprise  of  strangers. 

He  reached  Keswick  by  July  4,  and  spent  his  time  chiefly 
in  walks  upon  the  hills,  staying  at  the  Derwentwater  Hotel. 
He  wrote ; — 

•  Keswick, 

'  19;A  July,  '67, 

'  Afternoon,  i  past  3. 

*]My   DEATiEST   TMoTIIER, 

'  As  this  is  the  last  post  before  Sunday  I  send  one 
more  line  to  say  I've  had  a  delightful  forenoon's  walk — since 
\  past  ten — by  St.  John's  ^'ale,  and  had  pleasant  thoughts, 
and  found  one  of  the  most  variedly  beautiful  torrent  beds  I 
ever  saw  in  my  life ;  and  I  feel  that  I  gain  strength,  slowly 
but  certainly,  every  day.  The  gi'eat  good  of  the  place  is  that 
I  can  be  content  without  going  on  great  excursions  which 
fatigue  and  do  me  harm  (or  else  worry  me  with  jjroblems ;) — 
I  am  content  here  with  the  roadside  hedges  and  streams  ;  and 
this  contentment  is  the  great  thing  for  health, — and  there  is 
hardly  anything  to  annoy  me  of  absurd  or  calamitous  human 
doing ;  but  still  this  ancient  cottage  life — very  rude,  and 
miserable  enough  in  its  torpor — but  clean,  and  calm,  not  a 
vile  cholera  and  plague  of  bestirred  pollution,  like  back 
streets  in  London.  There  is  also  much  more  real  and  deep 
beauty  than  I  expected  to  find,  in  some  of  the  minor  pieces  of 
scenery,  and  in  the  cloud  effects.' 

'I  have  the  secret  of  extracting  sadness  from  all  things, 
iiisteatl  of  joy,  which  is  no  enviable  talisman.  Forgive  me  if 
I  ever  write  in  a  way  that  may  pain  you.  It  is  best  that  you 
should  know,  when  I  write  cheerfully,  it  is  no  pretended  cheer- 
fulness ;  so  when  I  am  sad — I  think  it  right  to  confess  it.' 


♦TIME  AND  TIDE'  243 

'  30tk  July. 

'  Downcs*  arrived  yesterday  quite  comfortnbly  and  in  fine 
weather.  It  is  not  bad  this  morning,  and  I  hope  to  take 
him  for  a  walk  up  Sadiilchack,  wliieli,  after  all,  is  the  finest, 
to  my  mind,  of  all  the  Cumberland  hills — though  that  is  not 
saying  nuuh  ;  for  they  are  much  lower  in  eflect,in  proportion 
to  their  real  height,  than  I  had  expected.  The  beauty  of 
the  country  is  in  its  quiet  roadside  bits,  and  rusticity  of 
cottage  life  and  shepherd  labour.  Its  mountains  are  sorrow- 
fully melted  away  from  my  old  dreams  of  them.' 

Next  day  he  '  went  straight  up  the  steep  front  of  Saddle- 
back by  the  central  riilge  to  the  summit.  It  is  the  finest 
thing  I've  vet  seen,  there  being  several  bits  of  real  crag-work, 
and  a  fine  view  at  the  top  over  the  great  plains  of  Penrith  on 
one  side,  and  the  Cumberland  hills,  as  a  chain,  on  the  other. 
Fine  fresh  wind  blowing,  and  jilentv  of  crows.  Do  you 
remember  poor  papa's  favourite  story  about  the  Quaker  whom 
the  crows  ate  on  Saddleback  ?  There  were  some  of  the 
biggest  and  hoarsest-voiced  ones  about  the  cliff  that  I've 
ever  had  svmpathetic  croaks  from  ; — and  one  on  the  top,  or 
near  it,  so  big  that  Downcs  and  Crawley,  having  Austrian 
tendencies  in  politics,  took  it  for  a  "  black  eagle."  Downes 
went  up  capitally,  though  I  couldn't  get  him  down  again, 
because  he  Kould  stop  to  gather  ferns.  However,  we  did  it 
all  and  came  down  to  Threlkeld — of  the  Bridal  of  Tricrmain, 

'  The  King  his  way  pursued 
By  lonely  TbrelkeM's  waste  aud  wood,' 

in  good  time  for  me  to  dress  and,  for  a  wonder,  go  out  to 
dinner  with  Acland's  friends  the  Hutlers.' 

As  an  episode  in  this  visit  to  Ki-swick,  ten  days  were  given 
lo  the  neighbourhood  of  Ambloiile,  '  to  show  Downea 
Windermere.' 

•  The  gardener  at  Di'Doiark  UilL 


244         LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

•Watephfad, 

'  WiNDERMERE, 

'  lOth  AuoT<  1867, 
'  Mvi-niw). 

*I  was  at  Coniston  to-day.  Ou/  old  Waterhead  Inn,  where 
I  was  so  happy  jilaying  in  the  boats,  exists  no  more. — Its 
place  is  grown  over  with  smooth  Park  grass — the  very  site  of 
it  forgotten  !  and,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  down  the  lake,  a  vast 
hotel  built  in  the  railroad  station  style — making  up,  I 
suppose,  its  fifty  or  eighty  beds,  with  coffee-room — smoking- 
room — and  every  pestilent  and  devilish  Yankeeism  that 
money  can  buy,  or  speculation  plan. 

'The  dejjression,  whatever  its  cause,  does  not  affect  my 
strength.  I  walked  up  a  long  hill  on  the  road  to  Coniston 
to-day  (gathering  wild  raspberries) — then  from  this  new  Inn, 
two  miles  to  the  foot  of  Coniston  Did  Man;  up  it;  down 
again — (necessarily  !) — and  back  to  dinner,  without  so  much 
as  warming  myself — not  that  there  was  much  danger  of  doing 
that  at  the  top  ;  for  a  keen  west  wind  was  blowing  drifts  of 
cloud  by,  at  a  great  pace ;  and  one  was  glad  of  the  shelter  of 
the  pile  of  stones,  the  largest  and  oldest  I  ever  saw  on  a 
mountain  top.  I  suppose  the  whole  mountain  is  named  from 
it.  It  is  of  the  shape  of  a  beehive,  strongly  built,  about 
15  feet  high  (so  that  I  made  Downes  follow  me  up  it  before 
I  would  allow  he  had  been  at  the  top  of  the  Old  Man)  and 
covered  with  lichen  and  short  moss.  Lancaster  sands  and 
the  Irish  sea  were  very  beautiful,  and  so' also  the  two  lakes  of 
Coniston  and  Windermere,  lying  in  the  vastest  space  of  sweet 
cultivated  coinitry  I  have  ever  looked  over, — a  great  part  of 
the  view  from  the  lligi  being  merely  over  black  pine  forest, 
even  on  the  j)]ains.  Well,  after  dinner,  the  evening  was  very 
beautiful,  and  I  walked  up  the  long  hill  on  the  road  back 
from  Coniston — and  kept  ahead  of  the  carriage  for  two  miles; 
I  was  sadly  vexed  when  I  had  to  get  in  :  and  now — I  don't 
feel  as  if  I  had  been  walking  at  all — and  shall  probably  lie 
awake  for  an  hour  or  two — and  feeling  as  if  I  had  not  had 
exeicise  enough  to  send  me  to  sleep.' 


♦TLVIE  AND  TIDE'  245 

« L.\NonAi.r, 

'  Kvrninj. 

*It  is  pcrfccily  calm  ton'plit,  not  painfully  hot — and  the 
full  nioun  shinii)«j  over  the  mountains,  opposite  my  window, 
whiili  arc  the  scene  of  Wordswoith's  "  Kxriii-sion.'"  It  was 
tenihiv  hot  in  the  earlier  ilav,  and  I  did  not  leave  the  house 
till  live  o'clock.  Then  I  went  out,  and  in  the  heart  of  Lang- 
dale  Pikes  found  the  loveliest  roc k -scenery,  chased  with  silver 
waterfalls,  that  I  ever  set  foot  or  heart  upon.  The  Swiss 
ton-erit-beds  are  always  more  or  less  savaj^c,  and  ruinous,  with 
a  terrible  sense  of  overpowerin<(  strenjjth  anil  danger,  lulled. 
But  lure,  the  sweet  heather  and  ferns  and  star  nios.ses  nestled 
in  close  to  the  tUishing  of  the  naiTow  streams ; — while  evei-y 
cranny  of  crag  held  its  own  little  placid  lake  of  amber, 
trenihling  with  falling  drojis  —  but  quietly  trcnd)ling — not 
troubled  into  ridgy  wave  or  foam — the  rocks  themselves,  ideal 
rock,  iis  hard  as  iron — no — not  quite  that,  but  so  hard  that 
after  breuiking  some  of  it,  breaking  soliil  white  cpiart/  seemed 
like  smashing  brittle  loaf  sugar,  in  comparison — and  cloven 
into  the  most  noble  ma.sses  ;  not  grotesque,  but  majestic  and 
full  of  harmony  with  the  larger  mountain  mass  of  which  they 
formetl  a  part.  Fancy  what  a  place  !  for  a  hot  afternoon 
after  live,  with  no  wiiul — and  absolute  solitude  ;  no  creature 
— except  a  lamb  or  two — to  mix  any  ruiler  sound  or  voice 
with  the  plash  of  the  iiuiumerable  streamlets.' 

After  speniling  September  with  his  mother  at  Norwood 
under  the  care  of  Dr.  I'owell,  he  was  able  to  return  home, 
pre|)arc  '  Time  and  Tide '  for  publication,  anil  write  the 
preface  on  Dec.  1  itii.  On  the  I'Jth  the  book  was  out,  and 
iunnediately  bought  up.  A  month  later  the  second  edition 
•as  issued. 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

AGATES,  AND  ABBEVILLE.    (1868.) 

•And  whenever  the  way  seemed  loDg, 
Or  his  heart  began  to  fail, 
She  would  sing  a  more  wouderful  song, 
Or  tell  a  more  marvellous  tale.' 

Longfellow. 

OF  less  interest  to  the  general  reader,  though  too  im- 
portant a  part  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  life  and  work  to  be 
passed  over  without  mention,  are  his  studies  in 
Mineralogy.  We  have  heard  of  his  early  interest  in  spars 
and  ores;  of  his  juvenile  dictionary  in  forgotten  hieroglyphics ; 
and  of  his  studies  in  the  field  and  at  the  British  Museum. 
He  had  made  a  splendid  collection,  and  knew  the  various 
museums  of  Europe  as  familiarly  as  he  knew  the  picture- 
galleries.  In  the  '  Ethics  of  the  Dust '  he  had  chosen 
Crystallography  as  the  subject  in  which  to  exemplify  his 
method  of  education  ;  and  in  1S6T,  after  finishing  the  lettei-s 
to  Thomas  Dixon,  he  took  refuge,  as  before,  among  the 
stones,  from  the  stress  of  more  agitating  problems. 

In  the  lectui-e  on  the  Savoy  Alps  in  1863  he  had  referred 
to  a  hint  of  Saussure's,  that  the  contorted  beds  of  the  lime- 
stones might  possibly  be  due  to  some  sort  of  internal  action, 
resembling  on  a  large  scale  that  separation  into  concentric  or 
curved  bands  which  is  seen  in  calcareous  deposits.  The  con- 
tortions of  gneiss  were  similarly  analogous,  it  was  suggested, 
to  those  of  the  various  forms  of  silica,  Mr.  Ruskin  did  not 
adopt  the  theory,  but  put  it  by  for  examination  in  contrast 


AGATES,  AND  ABBEVILLE  247 

nilli  the  usual  cxjilanation  of  these  phenomena,  as  the  simple 
mtilianii-al  thni.st  of  the  ronti,K'tin{>;  surface  of  the  earth. 

In  ISG'3  and  l.SGG  he  had  been  among  the  NagclHiiii  of 
Northern  Swit/eriaiid,  studvinnj  the  pmlding- stones  and 
bixHTcias.  He  sjiw  that  the  difference  between  these  forma- 
tions, in  their  structural  aspect,  and  the  hand-specimens  in 
liis  collection  of  pisolitic  anil  brecciated  minerals  was  chiefly 
i  matter  of  size ;  and  that  the  resemblances  in  form  were 
irery  close.  And  so  he  concluded  that  if  the  stmcture  of  the 
minerals  could  be  fully  understood,  a  clue  might  be  found  to 
tiie  very  puzzling  question  of  the  origin  of  niountain- 
itructure. 

Hence  his  attempt  to  analyze  the  structure  of  agate.s  and 
limilar  baniied  and  brecciated  minerals,  in  the  series  of 
papei-s  in  the  Geological  Maffaztne  ,-*  an  attempt  which, 
though  it  was  never  properly  concluded,  and  fails  to  come  to 
my  general  conclusion,  is  extremely  interestingf  as  an  account 
jf  iKautiful  and  curious  natural  forms  too  little  noticed  by 
jrdinary  scientific  mineralogists. 

Mr.  Uu.skin  began  by  naming  the  different  ways  in  which 
solid  rocks  became  fragmentary  ;  of  which  one  was  by  homo- 
jeneous  segregation,  as  seen  in  oolites  and  pisolites  ;  and 
mother,  by  segregation  of  distinct  substances  from  a  homo- 
geneous j)a.ste.  He  showed  how  this  latter  way  might  explain 
lome  curious  conditions  of  ja-spcr;  how  an  example  of  brec- 
:iated  malachite  proved  that  the  banded  structure  was  not 
arior  to  the  fractures,  but  that  both  tendencies  were  at  work 
:ogelher  ;  and  how  in  many  forais  of  agate  the  .same  pheno- 
mena made  it  im|)ossible  to  believe  that  simple  successive 
deposition,  and  violent  concussion  from  without,  wholly 
jxplained  their  origin.  He  thought  that  enough  attention 
lad  not  been  drawn  to  the  processes  of  segregation  ;   and 

♦  August  and  November,  18G7,  January,  April  and  May,  1868, 
t)ecenil)er,  IfiGO,  and  January,  1870,  illustrated  with  very  fine  mezzotint 
jlatesi  and  woo<lcuta. 

t  See  the  testimony  of  Prof.  Rupert  Jonea,  F.U.S.,  in  the  'Proceed- 
n^  if  the  Geologists'  Association,'  vol  ir..  No.  7. 


248        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

suggested  that  many  conglomerates  might  not  be  merely  a 
collection  of  pebbles,  but  concretionary,  like  orbicular  granite 
(Napoleonite)  and  other  nodule -structures  in  metamorphic  1 
rock. 

On  these  analogies  he  suspected  that  some  contortions  and 
faults  on  a  large  scale  might  not  be  the  result  of  mechanical 
violence,  but  colossal  phenomena  of  retractation  and  con- 
traction;  and  even  that  many  apparent  strata  had  been 
produced  by  segregation.  This  idea,  he  said,  had  been 
suggested  to  him  in  a  paper  by  IVIr.  George  j\Ia\v,  the  son 
of  the  Mr.  Maw  who  took  him  to  task  years  before  about 
'  Reflections  in  Water."'  I  have  not  seen  the  paper  alluded 
to,  and  I  should  not  like  to  fix  Mr.  Ruskin's  heresies  on  its 
author,  who  is  so  well  known  in  the  world  of  science  by  his 
work  in  geology  and  botany,  and  to  the  public  by  the 
encaustic  tiles  and  lustre  pottery  of  his  firm.  But  while 
palaeontology  makes  it  evident  that  the  great  limestone 
strata  of  the  Alps  are  the  result  of  successive  deposition,  it 
does  seem  probable  that  iVIr.  Ruskin  was  right  in  his  hesita- 
tion to  accept  the  compression-theory  of  mountain  origin.* 

In  the  following  papers,  written  during  18G8,  he  described 
the  different  states  of  semi-crystalline  silica,  and  the  two 
great  families  of  agates,  and  drew  attention  to  the  com- 
plexity of  the  laws  under  which  they  had  been  formed,  and 
the  insufficiency  of  the  old  theory.  Meanwhile  the  conditions 
of  crystallisation  were  becoming  the  subject  of  a  new  school 
of  research,  led  by  Dr.  Clifton  Sorby,.  to  which  Mr.  Ruskin 
looked  with  eagerness  for  the  clearing  up  of  his  difficulties; 
but  his  Oxford  Professorship,  with  the  many  new  enterprises 
of  the  next  ten  years,  forced  him  to  lay  aside  the  agate- 
question  as  a  serious  study.  And  though  from  time  to  time 
the  results  of  the  new  investigations  were  kindly  communi- 
cated to  him  by  Dr.  Sorby  and  Mr.  Clifton  \\'ard,  and 
followed  by  him  in  the  published  memoirs  of  the  microscopic 
mineralogists;    though    Professor   Chandler   Roberts   helped 

•  See  '  The  Orisin  of  Mountain-Ranges,'  by  T.  MeUard  Reade,  C.E. 
F.G.S.,  etc.  C1886J. 


AGATES,  AND  ABBEVILLE  219 

him  in  the  clicniistrv  of  fjclatinous  states  of  silica,  Mr.  ITiniv 
VNillitt  in  tlie  .stiiily  of  flints,  and  many  otliers  in  various 
lepartinents;  lie  never  was  able  to  brinj;  himself  to  handle 
:he  mwlern  niicrosiope  ami  work  out  the  whole  business 
ifresh,  from  the  nioilern  point  of  view.  He  had  to  leave  his 
K't  study,  very  ixluotunlly,  to  yoiui^^er  men ;  not  without 
lartinj^  cautions  a;;:iinst  hasty  theorisinj;,  nor  without  claims 
'or  a  wider  scope  in  their  view  of  the  subject. 

The  student  who  cares  to  make  himself  acquainted  with 
the  spirit  in  which  .Mr.  Ru.skin  approached  one  department 
)f  the  subject,  shouM  take  the  '  Catalo-ue  of  a  series  of 
ipccimens  in  the  British  Museum  (.Natural  History),  illus- 
trative of  the  more  common  forms  of  Native  Silica,  arranged 
presentetl  for  the  most  part]  and  described  by  John  lluskin, 
l"'.G.S.,'  and  spend  a  few  houre  at  Cromwell  Road  with  the 
|}amphlet  in  his  hand,  over  the  mineral  ca.ses,  just  as  tourist.s 
n  Venice  are  seen  comparinj^  ids  notes  with  tlie  pictures  in 
:he  Academy.  And  as  the  shilling  catalogue  is  by  no  means 
ihstrusc,  and  the  specimens  are  more  l)eautiful  than  most 
jicture-shows,  the  unscientific  reader  would  not  find  his  time 
ost  in  learning  -something  new  about  Nature,  and  something 
lew  to  most  readers,  I  suspect,  about  lluskin. 

One  other  outcome  of  the  analogy  between  minenils  and 
Tiountains,  waa  ^Ir.  Buskin's  scepticism  in  the  matter  of 
ricavage  and  jointing,  which  he  thought  insufficiently  studied 
md  explained  by  the  holilere  of  the  mechanical  theory,  and 
ius[x;cted  to  be  rather  akin  to  crystalline  cleavage,  both  in 
ispects  and  origin.  Not  to  dwell  on  these  details,  I  merely 
lote  that  a  great  recent  authority.  Professor  I're.stwich,*  says, 
iftcr  weighing  the  evidence:  'The  system  of  joints,  therefore, 
iceni-  *o  me  to  be  not  a  simple  mechanical  action,  but  one 
Mnd)ipe<l  with  a  condition  of  crystallisation;  and  though, 
"rom  the  inHuenccs  of  other  meihanical  forces  to  which  the 
rwks  have  been  exposed,  and  from  the  varying  proportions 
of  their  constituent  ingix-tlients,  we  cannot  expect  the  angles 
to  pi-esent  the  exact  delinition  which  a  crystal  of  the  pure 
•  Geolooy  (1886),  vol.  i,  p.  283. 


250        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

mineral  would  have,  still  there  is  every  appearance  of  the 
plane-lines  of  shrinkage  and  jointing  having  been  guided  in 
many  cases,  if  not  in  ail,  by  planes  of  crystalline  cleavage,  in 
consequence  of  these  being  those  of  least  resistance.' 

We  must  now  recover  the  thread  of  our  story  and  carry 
it  hastily  over  the  year  spent  chiefly,  though  by  no  means 
wholly,  in  these  mineral  researches.  And  first  to  tell  a 
characteristic  anecdote,  preserved  in  '  Arrows  of  the  Chace.' 
'The  Daily  Telegraph  of  January  21st,  1868,  contained  a 
leading  article  upon  the  following  facts.  It  appeared  that 
a  girl,  named  Matilda  Griggs,  had  been  nearly  murdered  by 
her  seducer,  who,  after  stabbing  her  in  no  less  than  thirteen 
places,  had  then  left  her  for  dead.  She  had,  however,  still 
strength  enough  to  crawl  into  a  field  close  by,  and  there 
swooned.  The  assistance  she  met  with  in  this  plight  was  of 
a  rare  kind.  Two  calves  came  up  to  her,  and  disposing 
themselves  on  either  side  of  her  bleeding  body,  thus  kept  her 
warm  and  partly  sheltered  from  cold  and  rain.  Temporarily 
preserved,  the  girl  eventually  recovered,  and  entered  into 
recognizances,  under  a  sum  of  forty  pounds,  to  prosecute  her 
murderous  lover.  But  "she  loved  much,"  and,  failing  to 
prosecute,  forfeited  her  recognizances,  and  was  imprisoned  by 
the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  for  her  debt.  "  Pity  the 
poor  debtor,"  wTote  the  Daily  Telegraph,  and  in  the  next 
day's  issue  appeared  the  following  letter,  probably  not  in- 
terided  for  the  publication  accorded  to  it.  "  Sir,— Except  in 
'  Gil  Bias,"  I  never  read  of  anything  Astrsan  on  the  earth  so 
perfect  as  the  story  in  your  fourth  article  to-day.  I  send 
you  a  cheque  for  the  Chancellor.  If  forty,  in  legal  terms, 
means  four  hundred,  you  must  explain  the  farther  require- 
ments to  your  impulsive  public. 

♦  I  am,  Sir, 

'  Youi"  faithful  servant, 

'J.    IIUSKIN.'" 

The  writer  of  letters  like  this  naturally  had  a  large  cor- 
respondence, beside  that  which  a  circle  of  private  friends  and 


.  AGATES,  AND  ABBEMLLE  251 

iiimlKTlcss  nilmii-cre  and  renclci-s  elicited.  About  this  time 
t  grew  to  such  a  pitch  that  he  was  obliged  to  print  a  form 
ixcusing  him  from  letter-writing  on  the  ground  of  stress  of 
vork.  And  indeed  this  year,  though  he  did  not  publish  his 
mnual  volume,  as  usual,  he  was  fully  occupied  with  frequent 
ettcrs  to  newspapers,  several  lectures  and  addresses,  a  preface 
o  the  reprint  of  his  old  friend  Cruikslmnk's  '  Grimm,'  and 
he  beginning  of  a  new  botanical  work,  '  Proserpina,'  in 
iddition  to  the  mineralogy,  and,  I  believe,  a  renewed  interest 
n  classical  studies.  Of  the  public  ad<lresses  the  most  im- 
lortant  -was  that  on  'The  Mystery  of  Life  and  its  Arts,' 
lelivercd  in  the  theatre  of  the  lloyal  College  of  Science, 
Jublin  (May  l;3th),  and  printed  in  '  Sesame  and  Lilies.' 

After  this  visit  to  Ireland  he  spent  a  few  days  at  Win- 
lington ;  and  late  in  August  crossed  the  Channel,  for  rest 
mil  change  at  Abbeville.  For  the  ])ast  five  years  Mr. 
luskin  hiul  found  very  little  time  for  drawing;  it  was  twenty 
ears  since  his  last  sketching  of  French  Gothic,  except  for  a 
tudy  (now  at  Oxford),  of  the  porch  at  Amiens,  in  1856. 
:Ie  took  up  the  old  work  where  he  had  left  it,  after  writing 
he  '  Seven  Lamps,'  with  fresh  interest  and  more  advanced 
)owei-s  of  draughtsmanship,  as  shown  in  the  picture  engraved 
13  frontispiece  to  his  '  Poems,'  and  in  the  pencil  study  of 
he  Place  Amiral  Combct,  now  in  the  drawing  school  at 
Dxford. 

The  following  are  extracts  from  the  usual  budget  of  home- 
etters  ;  readers  of '  Fors '  will  need  no  further  introduction  to 
iieir  old  acquaintance,  the  tallow-chandler. 

•ABBEVII.tK, 

*Fndait, 

'lsijiSfpt.,l86S. 

'  You  seem  to  have  a  mo^st  uncomfortable  time  of  it,  with 
he  disturbance  of  the  house.  However,  I  can  only  leave 
I'ou  to  manage  these  things  as  you  think  l)est — or  feel 
jleasjintest  to  yourself.  I  am  saddenetl  by  another  kind  of 
lisordcr.     France  ia  in  evcrjthing  so  fallen  back,  so  dcsolat« 


252        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKLV 

and  comfortless,  compared  to  what  it  was  twenty  years  ago — 
the  people  so  much  rounjher,  clumsier,  more  uncivil — every- 
thing they  do,  vulgar  and  base.  Remnants  of  the  old  nature 
come  out  when  they  begin  to  know  you.  I  am  drawing  at  a 
nice  tallow-chandler's  door,  and  to-day,  for  the  first  time  had 
to  go  inside  for  rain.  He  was  very  courteous  and  nice,  and 
warned  me  against  running  against  the  candle-ends — or 
bottoms,  as  they  were  piled  on  the  shelves,  saying — "  You 
must  take  care,  you  see,  not  to  steal  any  of  my  candles  " — or 
"  steal  from  my  candles,"  meaning  not  to  rub  them  off  on 
my  coat.  He  has  a  beautiful  family  of  cats — papa  and 
mamma  and  two  superb  kittens — half  Angora.' 

'  22n(Z  Sept. 
'I  am  going  to  my  cats  and  tallow-chandler.  ...  I  was 
very  much  struck  by  the  superiority  of  manner,  both  in  him 
and  in  his  two  daughters  who  serve  at  the  counter,  to  persons 
of  the  same  class  in  England.  AMien  the  girls  have  weighed 
out  their  candles,  or  written  down  the  orders  that  are  sent 
in,  they  instantly  sit  down  to  their  needlework  behind  the 
counter,  and  are  always  busy,  yet  always  quiet;  and  their 
father,  though  of  course  there  may  be  vulgar  idioms  in  his 
language  which  I  do  not  recognize,  has  entirely  the  manners 
of  a  gentleman.' 

'  30;A  Sept. 

*  I  have  one  advantage  here  I  had  not  counted  on.  I  see 
by  the  papers  that  the  weather  in  England  is  very  stormy 
and  -bad.  Now,  though  it  is  showery  here,  and  breezy,  it 
has  always  allowed  me  at  some  time  of  the  day  to  draw. 
The  air  is  tender  and  soft,  invariably — even  when  blowing 
with  force ;  and  to-day,  I  have  seen  quite  the  loveliest  sunset 
I  ever  yet  saw, — one  at  Boulogne  in  "61  was  richer;  but  for 
delicacy  and  loveliness  nothing  of  past  sight  ever  came  neai 
this.' 

Earlier  on  the  same  day  he  had  written  :^ 

'  I  am  well  satisfied  with  the  work  I  am  doing,  and  even 
with  my  own  power  of  doing  it,  if  only  I  can  keep  mysell 


AGATES,  AND  ABBEVILLE  253 

from  ftvnricioiisly  trying  to  do  too  much,  and  working 
hiiiriiilly.  But  I  can  do  veri/  little  quite  «•<•//,  tach  day; 
with  that  however  it  is  niv  bounden  thitv  to  be  content. 

'And  now  I  have  a  little  j)ieie  of  news  for  you.  Our  old 
Heme  Hill  house  being  now  tenantless,  and  reiiuiring  some 
repaii-s  before  I  can  gut  a  tenant,  I  have  resolved  to  keep  it 
for  myself,  for  my  rougher  mineral  work  and  mass  of 
collection ;  keeping  only  my  (incst  specimens  at  Denmark 
Hill.  My  fii-st  nason  for  this,  is  affection  for  the  old 
house  : — my  second,  want  of  room  ; — my  third,  the  incom- 
patibility of  hammering,  washing,  and  experimenting  on 
stones,  with  cleanliness  in  my  stores  of  drawings.  And  mv 
fourth  is  the  power  I  shall  have,  when  I  want  to  do  anything 
very  cpiietly,  of  going  up  the  hill  and  thinking  it  out  in  the 
old  garden,  where  your  greenhouse  still  stands,  and  the 
aviarv — without  fear  of  interruption  from  callei-s. 

'  It  may  jierhaps  amuse  you,  in  hours  which  otherwise 
would  be  listless,  to  think  over  what  mav  be  done  with  the 
old  hou.se.  I  have  ordered  it  at  once  to  be  put  in  |)roper 
repair  by  Mr.  Snell ;  but  for  the  furnishing,  I  can  give  no 
diiTctions  at  [jresent :  it  is  to  be  very  simple,  at  all  events, 
antl  calculated  chiefly  for  museum  work  anil  for  stores  of 
stones  and  hooks :  and  you  really  must  not  set  your  hcait  on 
having  it  funii>lu'd  like  Buckingham  I'alacc. 

♦  I  have  bought  to  day,  for  five  pounds,  the  front  of  the 
ponh  of  the  Church  of  St.  James.  It  was  going  to  be 
entirely  destroyed.  It  is  woni  away,  and  has  little  of  its  old 
beauty;  but  as  a  remnant  of  the  (lothic  of  Abbeville — as  I 
happen  to  be  here — and  as  the  church  was  ticdicafed  to  my 
ralher's  patron  saint  (as  distinct  from  mine)  I'm  glad  to  have 
[jot  it.  It  is  a  low  arch — with  tracery  and  niches,  which  ivy, 
»nd  the  Krha  dcUa  Madonna,  will  grow  over  beautifully, 
vherever  I  rebuild  iL' 

At  Abbeville  Mr.  Buskin  had  with  him  as  usual  his  valet 
Craw  lev;  and  as  before  he  .sent  for  IJownes  the  gardener,  to 
^ve  him  a  holiday,  and  to  enjoy  his  raptures  over  every  new 


254        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

sight.  Mr.  C.  E.  Norton  came  on  a  short  visit,  and  Mr. 
Ruskin  followed  him  to  Paris,  where  he  met  the  poet  Long- 
fellow (October  7).  At  last  on  Monday,  19th  October,  he 
wrote : — '  Only  a  line  to-day,  for  I  am  getting  things 
together,  and  am  a  little  tired,  but  very  well,  and  glad  to 
come  home,  though  much  mortified  at  having  failed  in  half 
my  plans,  and  done  nothing  compared  to  what  I  expected. 
But  it  is  better  than  if  I  were  displeased  with  all  I  liad  done. 
It  isn't  Turner — and  it  isn't  CoiTCggio — it  isn't  even  Prout — 
but  it  isn't  bad.' 

Returning  home,  he  gave  an  account  of  his  autumn's  work 
in  the  lecture  at  the  Royal  Institution,  January  29th,  1869, 
on  the  '  Flamboyant  Architecture  of  the  Valley  of  the 
Somme.'  This  lecture  was  never  published  in  full ;  but  part 
of  the  original  text  is  printed  in  the  third  chapter  of  the 
work  we  have  next  to  notice, '  The  Queen  of  the  Air.' 


CHAPTER  IX. 

•THE  QCEEN  OF  THE  AIR.'    (18C9.) 

•  For  when  the  Gentiles,  which  have  not  the  law,  do  by  nature  the 
things  contained  in  the  law,  these,  having  not  the  law,  are  a  law  unto 
theniselvea'— St.  Paul  (Rom.  iL  14). 

IN  -spite  of  a  'classical  education'  and  the  influence  of 
Aristotle  upon  the  immature  art-theories  of  his  earlier 
works,  Mr.  Uuskin  whs  known,  in  his  younger  days,  as  a 
Goth,  and  the  enemy  of  the  Greeks.  When  he  began  life, 
his  sen.se  of  justice  made  him  bike  the  side  of  Modem 
Painters  against  cia-ssical  tradition  ;  his  sympathy,  much 
wider  tiian  that  of  ordinary  critics,  led  him  to  prai.se  Gothic 
arthiteiturc,  anil  his  common  sense  prompted  liini  to  recom- 
mend it  as  a  domestic  style  more  convenient  than  the 
psciulo-classic  of  the  decadent  lU'niiis.sance.  Later  on,  when 
considering  the  great  questions  of  education  and  the  aims  of 
life,  he  entirely  .set  aside  the  common  routine  of  Greek  and 
Ijitin  grammar  as  the  all-in-all  of  culture.  But  this  was  not 
because  he  shared  C'arlyle's  contempt  for  cliussical  studies. 

In  '  Mtxlem  Painters,'  vol.  iii.,  he  had  followetl  out  the 
indications  of  nature-worship,  and  triwl  to  analyse  in  general 
terms  the  attitude  of  the  Greek  spirit  towanls  landscape 
jcencry,  as  betrayed  in  Homer  and  Aristophanes  and  the 
poets  usually  read.  Since  that  time  his  interest  in  Greek 
literature  hat!  been  gradually  increasing.  He  had  made 
cttorts  to  improve  his  knowU-ilge  of  the  language ;  and  he 
had  spent  many  days  iu  sketciiing  and  studying  the   terra- 


256        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

cottas  and  vases  and  coins  at  the  British  IVfuscum.  He  had 
also  taken  up  some  study  of  En;yptology,  throuoh  Chanipollion 
and  Bunsen  and  Birch,  in  the  hojie  of  tracing  the  origin  of 
Greek  decorative  art.  At  that  stage  of  architologicai  discovery 
it  was  not  so  clearly  seen  as  it  is  to-day  that  Egypt  was  only 
one  factor  in  the  development  of  Greece.  The  discoveries  at 
Ilissarlik  and  Mycenae,  and  in  Cyprus  and  elsewhere,  had  not 
shown  the  Aryan  and  Assyrian  parentage  of  many  Greek 
customs  and  myths  and  forms  of  art.  Comparative  mythology, 
twenty-five  years  ago,  was  a  department  of  philology,  intro- 
duced to  the  English  public  chieHy  by  Professor  Max  jMliller. 
Under  his  influence  jMr.  Ruskin  entered  step  by  step  upon  an 
inquiry  which  afterwards  became  of  singular  importance  in 
his  life  and  thought. 

In  1865  he  had  told  his  hearers  at  Bradford  that  Greek 
Religion  was  not,  as  commonly  supposed,  the  worship  of 
Beauty,  but  of  Wisdom  and  Power.  They  did  not,  in  their 
great  age,  worship  '  Venus,'  but  Apollo  and  Athena.  And 
he  regarded  their  mythology  as  a  sincere  tradition,  effective 
in  forming  a  high  moral  type,  and  a  great  school  of  art.  In 
the  '  Ethics  of  the  Dust '  he  had  explained  the  myth  of 
Athena  as  parallel  to  that  of  Neith  in  Egypt;  and  in  his 
fable  of  Neith  and  St.  Barbara  he  had  hinted  at  a  comparison, 
on  equal  terms,  of  Ancient  and  Mediaeval  mythology.  He 
ended  by  saying  that,  though  he  would  not  have  his  young 
hearers  believe  '  that  the  Greeks  were  better  than  we,  and 
thit  their  gods  were  real  angels,'  yet  their  art  and  morals 
weif  in  some  respects  greater,  and  their  beliefs  were  worth 
rfsiiciiful  and  sympathetic  study. 

The  '  yuecn  of  tlie  Air'  is  his  contribution  to  this  study. 
Like  much  of  his  work,  it  is  only  a  fragment  indicating  what 
l)c  HouKI  have  done,  and  began  to  do.  Ever  since  he  has 
been   accumulating  material  for  farther  investigation  of  the 

st.  Iiewildering  s|)liere  which  embraces,  too  amply  for 
111'  in.in's  review,  the  orbits  of  art,  and  science,  and  ethics, 
and  religion,  as  they  rise  and  set  upon  his  limited  horizon, 
ind  roll,  in  a  maz^  dance,  by  laws  that  elude  his  reckonings, 


•THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR'  257 

round  some  '  far-of]',  divine  event,  to  wliiih  the  whole  creation 
uioves.' 

On  Miirih  9tli,  1SG9,  his  lecture  at  University  Collcnro, 
London,  on  '(iiivk  M\tlis  of  Cioiul  and  Storm,'  iKjjan  with 
an  attempt  to  explain  in  popular  terms  how  a  myth  did'ers 
from  mere  fiction  on  the  one  hand  and  from  allei^ory  on  the 
other,  being  'not  conceiveil  didactically,  hut  diilactic  in  its 
essence,  as  all  <;ood  art  is.'  He  showed  that  Greek  poetry 
dealt  with  a  series  of  Nature-myths  with  which  were  inter- 
woven ethical  suggestions;  that  these  were  connected  with 
Egyptian  beliefs,  but  that  the  full  force  of  them  was  only 
develo|)ed  in  the  central  period  of  Greek  history,  and  their 
interpretation  was  to  be  read  in  a  sympathetic  analysis  of 
the  spirit  of  men  like  Pindar  and  Aeschylus.  'The  great 
t)ue>tion,'  he  saiil,  '  in  reading  a  story  is,  always,  not  what 
w ilil  hunter  dreamed,  or  what  childi.sh  race  first  dreaded  it ; 
but  what  wi.se  man  fii-xt  perfectly  told,  and  what  strong  people 
fii-st  perfectly  lived  by  it.  And  the  real  meaning  of  any 
myth  is  that  which  it  has  at  the  noblest  age  of  the  nation 
among  whom  it  wiw  current.'  This,  of  course,  is  a  higher 
view  than  that  of  the  anthropological  and  archa?ological 
specialist  :  but  at  the  same  time,  the  historical  method  is 
necessary  as  a  preliminary  and  a  check  upon  the  tendency  to 
fanciful  interpretation,  which  Mr.  Huskin,  in  common  with 
the  whole  philological  school,  docs  not  escape.  With  certain 
amenilment.s,  however,  his  work  is  most  valuable,  a.san  exposi- 
tion of  the  system  of  Greek  religion,  the  worship  of  four 
groups  of  nature-powers,  in  earth,  water,  fire  and  air ;  and 
rising  out  of  a  low  animism  and  fetishism  into  high  moral 
and  intellectual  conce|)tions. 

He  tmced  with  appreciation  the  development  of  the  notion 
of  Athena,  a.s  the  chief  power  of  the  air,  from  her  character  of 
actual  atnio>phere  to  that  of  the  breath  of  human  life;  and 
thence  to  the  higher  belief  in  a  l)i\ine  s|)irit,  indistinguishable 
■t  fin.t,  and  among  simple  folk  alwavs,  from  the  material 
bnath  in  the  nostril.s  of  man  ;  but  leading  up  to  healthy  views 
»f  morality  and  sincere  faith  in  Onniipixsent  Deity,  not  far 
17 


258        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

remote  in  its  practical  outcome  from  that  which  we  have 
received  from  the  Hebrews. 

In  the  nest  chapter  he  worked  out,  as  a  sequel  to  his 
lecture,  two  groups  of  Animal-myths ;  those  connected  with 
birds,  and  especially  the  dove,  as  type  of  Spirit,  and  those 
connected  with  the  serpent  in  its  various  significances. 
These  two  ^studies  were  continued,  moi-e  or  less,  in  'Love's 
Meinie '  and  in  the  lecture  printed  in  '  Deucalion,'  as  the  third 
group,  that  of  Plant-myths,  was  carried  on  in  '  Proserpina.' 
The  volume  contained  also  extracts  from  the  lectm-e  on  the 
Ai-chitecture  of  the  Valley  of  the  Somme,  and  two  numbers 
of  the  '  Cestus  of  Aglaia,'  and  closed  with  a  paper  on  The 
Hercules  of  Camarina,  read  to  the  South  Lambeth  Art 
School  on  March  15th.  This  study  of  a  Greek  coin  had 
already  formed  the  subject  of  an  address  at  the  Working 
Men's  College,  and  anticipated  the  second  course  of  Oxford 
Lectures.  For  the  rest,  '  The  Queen  of  the  Air '  is  marked 
by  its  statement,  more  clearly  than  before  in  Mr.  Ruskin's 
writing,  of  the  dependence  of  moral  upon  physical  life,  and  of 
physical  upon  moral  science.  He  speaks  with  respect  of  the 
work  of  Darwin  and  Tyndall ;  but,  as  formerly  in  the  Rede 
Lecture,  and  afterwards  in  the  '  Eagle's  Nest,'  he  claims  that 
natvu-al  science  should  not  be  pursued  as  an  end  in  itself, 
paramount  to  all  other  conclusions  and  considerations ;  but 
as  a  department  of  study  subordinate  to  ethics,  with  a  view  to 
utility  and  instruction.  In  later  times  it  was  this  principle 
which  guided  Mr.  Ruskin  in  the  view  he  took  of  Vivi- 
section, and  other  forms  of  scientific  research.  Premising 
that  science  was  subordinate  to  ethics,  when  the  two  clashed, 
as  he  held  they  did  in  some  cases,  science,  he  thought,  was  to 
give  way. 

Before  this  book  was  quite  ready  for  publication,  and  after 
a  sale  of  some  of  his  less  treasured  pictures  at  Christie's, 
Mr.  Ruskin  left  home  for  a  journey  to  Italy,  to  revisit  the 
subjects  of  'Stones  of  Venice,'  as  in  1868  he  had  revisited 
those  of  the  '  Seven  Lamps.'  At  \'evey,  on  the  way,  be. 
wrote  his  preface  (May  1st). 


•  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR  259 

By   quiet   stapes   he   passed   the    Siniplon,   writing   from 
Domo  d'Ossola,  5th  May  18(59  :— 

'My  dearkst  Mother, 

*  I  never  yet  had  so  beautiful  a  day  for  the  Simplon  as 
this  has  been  ;  though  the  skin  of  my  face  is  burniu'i  now  all 
over — to  keep  nie  well  in  iniiul  of  its  sunshine.  I  left  Hrieg 
at  6  exactly — light  clouds  breaking  away  into  perfect  calm  of 
blue.  Heavy  snow  on  the  col — about  a  league — with  the 
wreaths  in  many  plait's  higher  than  the  carriage.  Then, 
white  crocus  all  over  the  fields,  with  Soldanelle  and  Primula 
farinosa.  I  walke<l  about  three  miles  up,  and  seven  down, 
with  great  contentment;  the  waterfalls  being  all  in  rainbows. 
Mid  one  bevonil  anything  I  ever  yet  saw  ;  for  it  fell  in  a  pillar 
of  spray  against  shallow  behind,  and  became  rainbow  alto- 
ij;ether.  I  was  just  near  enough  to  get  the  belt  broad,  and 
the  down  part  of  the  arch  :  and  the  whole  fall  became  orange 
■ind  violet  against  deep  shade.  To-morrow  I  hojie  to  get 
news  of  you  all,  at  Baveno.' 

'Baveno, 

'  Thursday, 

'(,th  May,  1869. 
*  It  is  wet  this  morning,  and  very  dismal,  for  we  are  in  a 
ghastly  new  Inn,  the  old  one  being  shut  up;  and  there  is 
ilways  a  re-action  after  a  strong  excitement  like  the  beauty 
)f  the  Sim|)lon  yesterday,  which  leaves  one  very  dull.  But  it 
s  of  ii-3  use  growling  or  mewing.  I  hope  to  be  at  Milan 
o-morrow — at  Verona  for  Sunday.  I  have  been  reading 
)ean  Swift's  life,  and  'Gulliver's  Travels'  again.  Putting 
he  delight  in  dirt,  which  is  a  mere  disease,  aside,  Swift  is 
eiy  like  me,  in  most  things : — in  opinions  exactly  the  same.' 

At  Milan,  next  day,  he  went  to  see  the  St.  Catherine  of 
L,uini  which  he  hail  copied,  and  found  it  wantonly  damaged 
ly  the  carelessness  of  masons  who  put  their  ladders  u|)  against 
t,  just  as  if  it  were  a  bit  of  connnon,  whitewashed  wall. 

On  the  8th  he  reached  Verona  after  seventeen  years' 
bscncc,  and  on  the  10th  he  was  in  V'enioe.  There,  looking 
17— a 


260        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RLSKIN 

at  the  worlds  of  the  old  painters  with  a  fresh  eye,  and  with 
feelings  and  thoughts  far  difl'eient  from  those  with  which  he 
had  viewed  them  as  a  young  man,  in  1845,  he  saw  beauties 
he  had  passed  over  before,  in  the  works  of  a  painter  till  theu 
little  regarded  by  connoisscure,  and  entirely  neglecteil  by  the 
public.  Historians  of  art  like  Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle*  had 
indeed  examined  Carpaccio's  works  and  investigated  his  life, 
along  with  the  lives  and  works  of  many  another  obscure 
master:  artists  like  Mr.  Hook  and  Mr.  Burne-Jones  had 
admired  his  pictures ;  Mr.  Ruskin  had  mentioned  his  back- 
grounds twice  or  thrice  in  '  Stones  of  Venice.'  But  no  writer 
had  noticed  his  extraordinary  interest  as  an  exponent  of  the 
mythology  of  the  Middle  Ages,  as  the  illustrator  of  poetical 
folk-lore  derived  from  those  antique  myths  of  Greece,  and 
newly  presented  by  the  genius  of  Christianity. 

This  was  a  discovery  for  which  Mr.  Ruskin  was  now  ripe. 
He  saw  at  once  that  he  had  found  a  treasure-house  of  things 
new  and  old.  He  fell  in  love  with  St.  Ursula  as,  twenty-four 
years  earlier,  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  statue  of  Ilaria  at 
Lucca;  and  she  became,  as  time  after  time  he  revisited  Venice 
for  her  sake,  a  personality,  a  spiritual  presence,  a  living  ideal, 
exactly  as  the  Queen  of  the  Air  might  have  been  to  the 
sincere  Athenian  in  the  pagan  age  of  faith.  The  story  of  her 
life  and  death  became  an  example,  the  conception  of  her 
character,  as  read  in  Carpaccio's  picture,  became  a  standard 
for  his  ovm  life  and  action  in  many  a  time  of  distress  and 
discouragement.  The  thought  of  'What  would  St.  Ursula 
say.?'  led  him — not  always,  but  far  more  often  than  his 
correspondents  knew — to  burn  the  letter  of  sharp  retort  upon 
stupidity  and  impertinence,  and  to  force  the  wearied  brain 
and  oveistrung  nerves  into  patience  and  a  kindly  answer. 
And  later  on,  the  playful  credence  which  he  accorded  to  the 
myth  deepened  into  a  renewed  sense  of  the  possibility  of 
spiritual  realities,  when  he  learnt  to  look,  with  those  mediaeval 
believers,  once  more  as  a  little  child  upon  the  unfathomable 
mysteries  of  life. 

♦  Their  '  History  of  Painting  in  North  Italy,'  containing  a  detailed 
account  of  Carpaccio,  was  published  in  1871. 


•THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  AIR'  2G1 

Hut  tlii':s  ftnticipates  the  story;  at  the  time,  he  foiiml  ii» 
Cnrpaccio  tlie  nmn  who  had  toucheil  tlie  full  choiil  of  his 
f,>.linjjs  ftiiii  his  thouj;ht.s,  just  ns,  in  his  boyhood.  Turner 
had  It'll  him,  marvelling,  through  the  (ii-e  and  cloud  to  the 
mountain-altar;  and  a-s,  in  his  youth,  Tintoret  had  inter- 
preted the  storm  anil  stress  of  a  mind  awiikeniig  to  the 
terrible  realities  of  the  world.  It  was  no  caprice  of  a  change- 
ful taste,  nor  love  of  startling  paradox,  that  brought  him  to 
•discover  Carpaccio';  it  was  the  logical  sequence  of  his 
•tuilies,  and  widening  interests,  and  a  view  of  art  end)racing 
far  broiuler  issues  than  the  connoisseurship  of  '  Modern 
Painters,'  or  the  didacticism  of  'Seven  Lamps,'  or  the 
historical  research  of  '  Stones  of  Venice.' 

Soon  after  the  '  Queeu  of  the  Air'  was  published  Cailylc 
wrote : — 

'  Chelsea, 

'Aug*  17M,  18C9. 
'De.\r  RcsKrv, 

'  Y'  excell'  kind  and  loving  little  note  from  Vevey 
reacheil  me;  but  nothing  since,  not  even  precise  news  at 
second  hand,  wh**  I  much  desired.  The  blame  of  my  not 
answering  and  inciting  wius  not  mine,  but  that  of  my  poor 
rebellious  right-hand, — wh^  often  refuses  altog^  to  do  any 
writing  for  me  that  can  be  read  ;  having  already  done  too 
much,  it  probably  thinks  !• 

.  .  .  '  what  I  wish  now  is  to  know  if  vou  arc  at  home,  and 
to  see  you  instantly  if  so.  Inst"^  !  For  I  am  not  unlikely  to 
be  off  in  a  few  days  (by  Stiu'iur  Some  whither)  and  ag"  miss 
you.     Come,  I  Ix-g,  quiim  primiim  ! 

'  Last  wt-ek  I  got  y' "  Queen  of  the  Air,"  and  read  it.  Eu^e^ 
Eii^-.  No  such  IJook  have  I  met  with  for  long  years  past. 
The  one  soul  now  iu  the  world  who  seems  to  feel  as  I  do  on 
the  highest  matters,  and  sjieaks  mir  atu  Jem  Ilcrzcn,  exactly 
what  I  wanted  to  hear! — As  to  the  natural -history  of  those 
old  mytlis  I  remained  here  and  there  a  little  unccrt";  but  as 

*  Carlyle  wag  tlieu  loaiug  the  uae  ot  hU  hand,  and  thU  letter  U 
Kribblod  in  blue  pencil. 


262        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

to  the  meanings  you  put  into  them,  never  anywhere.  All 
these  things  I  not  only  "  agree "  with,  but  R^  use  Thor  s 
Hammer,  if  I  had  it,  to  enforce  and  put  in  action  on  this 
rotten  world.  Well  done,  well  done  ! — and  pluck  up  a  heart, 
and  continue  ag"  and  ag°.  And  don't  say  "  most  g'  tho"  are 
dressed  in  shrouds^:  many,  many  are  the  Phoebus  Apollo 
celestial  arrows  you  still  have  to  shoot  into  the  foul  Pythons, 
and  poisonous  abominable  IMegatheriums  and  Plesiosaurians 
that  go  staggering  ab',  lar<je  an  cathedrals,  iu  ow  sunk  Epoch 


CIIAFlEn  X. 

VEUOXA  AND  OXFORD.     (18u9  187aj 

'A  proffssorsliip 
At  Basil  I     Since  Toa  Bee  so  uuicli  iu  it, 
And  think  my  life  was  reasonably  drained 
Of  life's  delights  to  render  me  a  match 
For  duties  arduous  as  such  post  demands,— 
Be  it  far  from  me  to  deny  my  power,' 

Browning's  Paracelsut. 

THE  main  object  of  this  journey  was,  however,  not  to 
study  mythology,  but  to  continue  the  revision  of  old 
estimates  of  architecture,  and  after  seventeen  years  to 
look  with  a  fresh  eye  at  the  subjects  of  'Stones  of  Venice.' 

The  churclies  and  monuments  of  Verona  liad  Iwen  Ics-s 
thoroughly  stuilicd  than  those  of  Venice,  and  now  thev  were 
threatened  with  imminent  restoration.  On  May  25th  Mr. 
lluskin  wrote: — '  It  is  very  strange  that  I  have  just  been  in 
time — after  17  years'  delay — to  get  the  remainder  of  what  I 
wanted  from  the  rctl  tomb  of  which  my  old  drawing  hangs  in 
the  passage' — (the  Castelbarco  monument;  the  drawing  is 
reproduceti  in  'Studies  in  Both  Arts.')  'To-morrow  they 
put  up  .scaffoliling  to  retouch,  and  I  doubt  not,  spoil  it  for 
evermore.'  He  succccdcti  in  getting  a  delay  of  ten  davs,  to 
enable  him  to  paint  the  tomb  in  its  original  state  ;  but  before 
he  went  home  it  '  had  its  new  white  cap  on  and  looked  like  a 
Venetian  gentleman  in  a  pantaloon's  mask.'  He  brought 
fcway  one  of  the  actual  stones  of  the  old  roof. 

On  June  3  he  wrote  • — '  I  am  getting  on  well  with  all  my 


264        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

own  work  ;  and  much  pleased  with  some  that  Mr.  Bunney  is 
doing  for  me;  so  that  really  I  expect  to  carry  off  a  great 
deal  of  Verona.  .  .  .  The  only  mischief  of  the  jjlace  is  its 
being  too  rich.  Stones,  flowers,  mountains — ail  etjually  asking 
one  to  look  at  them  ;  a  history  to  every  foot  of  ground,  and 
a  picture  on  every  foot  of  wall ;  frescoes  fading  away  in  the 
neglected  streets — like  the  colours  of  the  dolphin.'' 

As  assistants  in  this  enterprise  of  recording  the  monuments 
of  Venice  and  Verona,  and  of  recording  them  more  fully  and 
in  a  more  interesting  way  than  by  photograjihy,  he  took  with 
him  Arthur  Burgess  and  John  Bunney,  his  former  pupils. 
IVIr.  Burgess  was  the  subject  of  a  memoir  by  IMr.  Ruskin  in 
the  Century  Guild  Hobby  Horse  (April  1887),  appreciating 
his  talents  and  lamenting  his  loss.  Mr.  Bunney,  who  had 
travelled  with  ]\Ir.  Ruskin  in  Switzerland  in  1863,  and  had 
lately  lived  near  Florence,  thenceforward  settled  in  Venice, 
where  he  died  in  1882,  after  completing  his  gieat  work,  the 
St.  Mark's  now  in  the  Ruskin  Museum  at  Sheflfield.  A 
memoir  of  him  by  Mr.  \Vedderburn  appeared  in  the  catalogue 
of  the  Venice  Exhibition,  at  the  Fine  Art  Society's  Gallery 
in  November  1882. 

At  Venice  Mr.  Ruskin  had  met  his  old  friend  Mr.  Rawdon 
Brown,*  and  Count  Giberto  Borromeo,  whom  he  visited  at 
Milan  on  his  way  home,  with  deep  intere.st  in  the  Luinis  and 
in  the  authentic  bust  of  St.  Carlo,  so  closely  resembling  I\Ir. 
Ruskin  himself.  Another  noteworthy  encounter  is  recorded 
in  a  letter  of  May  4th. 

•  As  I  was  drawing  in  the  square  this  morning,  in  a  lovely, 
quiet,  Italian  light,  there  came  up  the  poet  Longfellow  with 
his  little  daughter — a  girl  of  12  or  13,  with  spring-y-cuxXcA 
flaxen  hair, — curls,  or  waves,  that  wouldn't  come  out  in  damp, 
I  mean.  They  stayed  talking  beside  me  some  time.  I  don't 
think  it  was  a  very  vain  thought  that  came  over  me,  that  if  a 
photograph  could  have  been  taken  of  the  beautiful  square  of 

♦  Whose  book  on  the  English  in  Italy  (from  Venetian  documents) 
was  shortly  to  be  published,  with  funds  supplied  by  Mr,  Buskin. 


VTRONA  AND  OXFORD  2G5 

Verona,  in  that  soft  light,  with  Longftllow  nm\  his  (iaiiLrhtor 
tiilkiiig  to  nic  at  my  work — some  piopic  both  in  Eiij^Kiiul  unci 
America  would  have  liked  copies  of  it.' 

Readers  of  '  Fors'  will  rccoj^nise  nn  incident  noted  on  the 
ISlh  of  June.  '  Yesterdiiy,  it  being  tiuite  cool,  I  went,  for  ft 
walk  ;  and  as  I  came  liown  from  a  rather  ([uiet  hill>ide,a  mile 
or  two  out  of  town,  I  ywist  a  house  where  the  women  were 
at  work  spinning  the  silk  off  the  cocoons.  There  was  a  sort 
of  whirrii  g  sounil  as  in  an  I'lnglish  mill  ;  but  at  intervals 
they  sang  a  long  sweet  chant,  all  together,  lasting  about  two 
minutes — then  pausing  a  minute  and  then  beginning  again. 
It  was  gooti  and  tender  music,  and  the  multitude  of  voices 
preventid  any  sense  of  failure,  so  that  it  was  very  lovely  and 
sweet,  and  like  the  things  that  I  mean  to  try  to  bring  to 
pass.'  For  he  was  alreaiiy  meditating  on  the  thoughts  that 
issued  in  the  proposals  of  St.  Cleorge's  Guild,  and  the  daily 
letters  of  this  summer  are  full  of  allusions  to  a  scheme  for  a 
great  social  movement,  as  well  as  to  his  plans  for  the  control 
of  Alpine  torrents  and  the  better  irrigation  of  their  valleys. 
On  the  2nd  of  June  he  wrote  : — '  I  sec  more  and  morc  dearly 
every  day  my  power  of  showing  how  the  Alpine  torrcnts  may 
be — not  subilueil — but  "educated."  A  torrent  is  just  like  » 
human  creature.  lA-ft  to  gain  full  strength  in  wantonness, 
and  rage,  no  power  can  any  more  redeem  it :  but  watch  the 
•  hamiels  of  every  early  imptdse,  and  fence  than,  and  your 
tori-ent  becomes  the  gentlest  and  most  blessing  of  ser^■ants.'' 

His  mother  was  anxious  for  him  to  come  home,  being 
persumled  that  he  was  overworking  himself  in  the  continued 
heat  tthich  his  letters  reported.  Hut  he  was  loath  to  leave 
Itidy,  in  which,  he  said,  his  work  for  the  future  lay.  He 
matle  two  more  visits  to  Venice,  to  draw  some  of  the  .sculp- 
tuix'd  details,  now  quickly  periNhing,  and  to  make  studii-s  of 
Tintorct  and  C'aqiaccio.  Among  other  friends  who  met  him 
there  was  Mr.  Ilolman  Hunt,  with  whom  he  went  round  his 
favourite  Scuola  di  San  Rocco  (1st  August).  Two  davs  later 
he  wrote  : — '  Vou  will  never  believe  it ;  but  I  have  actually 


266        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

been  trying  to  draw — a  baby.  Tlie  baby  which  the  priest  is 
holding  in  the  little  copy  of  Tintoret  by  Edward  Jones  which 
my  father  liked  so  much,  over  the  basin  stand  in  his  bed- 
room.* All  the  knowledge  I  have  gained  in  these  17  vears 
only  makes  me  more  full  of  awe  and  wonder  at  Tintoret. 
But  it  is  so  sad — so  sad  ; — no  one  to  care  for  him  but  me,  a?id 
all  going  so  fast  to  i-uin.  He  has  done  that  infant  Christ  in 
about  five  minutes — and  I  worked  for  two  hom-s  in  vain,  and 
could  not  tell  Tvhy  in  vain — the  mystery  of  his  touch  is  so  great.' 

Final  farewell  was  said  to  Verona  on  the  10th  of  August, 
for  the  homeward  journey  by  the  St.  Gothard,and  Giessbach, 
where  he  found  the  young  friend  of  1866  now  near  her  end, 
— and  Thun,  where  he  met  Professor  C.  E.  Norton.  On  the 
way  he  wrote  : — 

'Lugano, 

'  Saturday, 

'  14(h  August,  1869. 

'My  dearest  Mother, 

'  Yesterday — exactly  three  months  from  the  day  on 
which  I  entered  Verona  to  begin  work,  I  made  a  concluding 
sketch  of  the  old  Broletto  of  Como,  which  I  drew  first  for  the 
7  lampsf — I  know  not  how  many  years  ago, — and  left  Italy, 
for  this  time — having  been  entirely  well  and  strong  every  day 
of  my  quarter  of  a  year's  sojourn  there. 

'  This  morning,  before  breakfast,  I  was  sitting  for  the  first 
time  before  Luini's  Crucifixion  :  for  all  religious-art  qualities 
the  greatest  picture  south  of  the  Alps — or  rather,  in 
Europe. 

'  And  just  after  breakfast  I  got  a  telegram  from  my  cousin 
George  announcing  that  I  am  Professor  of  Art — the  first — at 
the  University  of  Oxford. 

'  Which  will  give  me  as  much  power  as  I  can  well  use — and 
would  have  given  pleasure  to  my  poor  father — and  therefore 
to  me — once.     It  will  make  no  difference  in  my  general  plans, 

*  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Burne-Jones  had  been  in  Venice  in  June,  1862  ;  the 
artist,  then  young  and  comparatively  unknown,  with  a  commission  to 
eopy  for  Mr.  Ruskin. 

t  '  Stones  of  Venice,'  voL  L,  plate  5. 


\TERONA  AND  OXFORD  2G7 

about  travel  etc.     I  shiill  think  quietly  of  it  as  I  drive  up 
towards  St.  (lotlmni  to-day. 

'  Ever,  my  dearest  mother,  ever  your  loviiif;  son, 

J.  UlSKIN'.' 

Six  years  earlier,  while  being  examined  before  the  Royal 
Academy  commission,  he  had  been  asked  :  '  Ibus  it  ever  struck 
you  that  it  wouUl  be  advantageous  to  art  if  there  were  at  the 
universities  profes.sors  of  art  who  might  give  lectures  and  give 
instruction  to  young  men  who  might  desire  to  avail  themselves 
of  it,  as  you  have  lectures  on  geology  and  botany.'''  To  which 
he  had  replietl :  '  Yes,  a.ssuredly.  The  want  of  interest  on 
the  part  of  the  upjwr  chusses  in  art  has  been  very  nuich  at 
the  botton)  of  the  abuses  which  have  crept  into  all  systems  of 
education  connectetl  with  it.  If  the  upper  classes  could  only 
be  intei-ested  in  it  by  being  led  into  it  when  young,  a  great 
improvement  might  be  looked  for,  therefore  I  feel  the  ex- 
petliency  of  such  an  addition  to  the  education  of  our 
universities.'  His  interest  in  the  fii-st  phase  of  University 
Extension,  and  his  gifts  of  Turners  to  Oxford  and  Cami)ridge, 
had  shown  that  he  wjis  reaily  to  go  out  of  his  way  to  help  in 
the  cause  he  had  promoted.  His  former  works  on  art,  and 
reputation  as  a  critic,  pointed  to  him  as  the  best  <iualilied 
man  in  the  country  for  such  a  post.  He  had  been  asked  by 
his  Oxford  friend.s,  who  were  many  ami  influential,  to  stand 
for  the  Profi-s-sorship  of  Poetry,  three  years  earlier,  'lliere 
was  no  doubt  that  the  election  would  Ik?  a  poj)ular  one,  and 
cretlitable  to  the  University.  On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Ruskin 
a-s  Trofcs-sor  would  have  a  certain  sanction  for  his  teaching, 
he  believed  ;  the  title,  and  the  .siilary  of  £ii5H  a  year  were 
hanlly  an  object  to  him  ;  but  the  position,  as  acci-etlited 
lecturer  and  anthorisetl  instructor  of  youth  opened  up  new 
vistas  of  usefulness,  new  worlds  of  work  to  conipier  ;  and  he 
accepted  the  invitation.  On  August  10th  he  was  elected 
Slade  Professor.* 

•  The  electors  were  the  Very  Revereml  Dr.  Li.Mell,  Dean  of  Ch.  Ch., 
Dr.  AcUqiI,  and  the  Rev.  G.  IUwliii.-ion,  Wiiif;  three  of  tlie  curiitom  of 
Jie   Uuiverail;  itiille'-ias  tbe  llev.  II.  O.  Cuxe,  Uutl.ev'a  Liltiajiau,  Sir 


268        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

He  returned  home  by  the  end  of  August  to  prepare  him- 
self for  his  new  duties.  During  the  last  period  he  had  been 
giving,  on  an  average,  half  a  dozen  lectures  a  year,  which 
anij)ly  filled  his  annual  volume.  Twelve  lectures  were  required 
of  the  professor.  Many  another  man  would  have  read  his 
twelve  lectures  and  gone  his  way ;  but  Mr.  Ruskin  was  not 
going  to  work  in  that  perfunctory  manner.  He  undertook 
to  revise  his  whole  teaching ;  to  write  for  his  hearens  a 
completely  new  series  of  treatises  on  art,  beginning  with  first 
principles  and  broad  generalisations,  and  proceeding  to  the 
different  departments  of  sculpture,  engraving,  landscape- 
painting  and  so  on ;  then  taking  up  the  history  of  art : — an 
encyclopsedic  scheme,  for  which,  no  doubt,  he  was  qualified ; 
which  he  could  have  carried  out  if  he  had  found  nothing  else 
to  do.  But  he  took  this  Oxford  work  not  as  a  substitute  for 
other  occupation,  exonerating  him  from  farther  claims  upon 
his  energy  and  time ;  nor  as  a  bye-plav  that  could  be  slurred. 
He  tried  to  do  it  thoroughly,  and  to  do  it  in  addition  to  the 
various  work  already  in  hand,  under  which,  as  it  was,  he  used 
to  break  down,  yearlv,  after  each  climax  of  effort. 

This  autumn  and  winter,  with  his  first  and  most  important 
course  in  preparation,  he  was  still  writing  lettei-s  to  the  Daily 
Telegraph  ;  being  begged  by  Carlyle  to  come — '  the  sight  of 
your  face  will  be  a  comfort,'  says  the  poor  old  man — and 
undertaking  lectures  at  the  Royal  Artillery  Institution, 
Woolwich,  and  at  the  Royal  Institution,  London.  The 
Woolwich  lecture,  given  on  December  14th,  was  that  added 
to  later  editions  of  the  '  Crown  of  W^ild  Olive,'  under  the 
title  of  '  The  Future  of  England.'  The  other,  February  4th, 
1870,  on  '  Verona  and  its  Rivei-s,'  involved  not  only  a  lecture 
on  art  and  history  and  contemporary  political  economy,  but 
an  exhibition  of  the  drawings  which  he  and  his  assistants  had 
made  during  the  preceding  summer. 

Four  days  later  he  opened  a  new  period  in  his  career  with 
his  inaugural  Lecture  in  the  Sheldonian  Theatre  at  Oxford. 

Fraucis  Grant,  President  of  the  Royal  Academy  of  London,  George 
Grote,  Esq.,  President  of  Univei-sity  College,  London,  and  R.  Fisher.  Esq., 
»ne  of  the  executors  of  the  will  of  the  late  Felix  Slade,  Ewj.,  the  donor. 


BOOK  IV. 

fROFESSOR  AND  PROPHET.     (1870-1899.) 

'  Easa  i  U  luce  etema  di  Sigieri, 
Che  Irg^ndo  iiel  vico  degli  strami 
SiJlugLZzO  iuvidioei  veri.' 

Da:<te,  PaiaJ.,  x.  130> 


CTIAPTEn  I 

FIRST  OXFORD  LECTURES.     (1870-1871.) 

•Cauuot  we  hire  some  Abelurd  to  lecture  to  usf 

TuoREAD,  U'alJen. 

3N  Tuesday,  8th  Febninry,  1870,  tlie  Slacle  Professor's 
lecture-room  was  crowdetl  to  ovei-flowing  with  niciiihei-s 
of  the  University,  old  and  younjr,  and  their  friends, 
ho  flocked  to  hear,  and  to  .see,  the  autlior  of  '  .Modern 
'aintcrs.'  Tlic  phice  was  densely  packed  loni;  before  tlie 
imc;  the  ante-rooms  were  filled  with  }>ersonal  friends  of 
Ir.  lluskin,  hopinjjj  for  some  corner  to  be  found  tlieni  at  the 
levenlh  hour;  the  doors  were  blocked  ojxn,  and  besieged 
utside  by  a  di.sappointetl  multitude. 

Professorial  lectuivs  are  not  usually  matters  of  gi-cat 
xcitement:  it  does  not  often  happen  that  the  accomnuHJa- 
ion  is  found  inade(|uate.  After  .some  ha.stv  arranj;ements 
ir  Henry  Aclanil  pu.shed  his  way  to  the  table,  announced 
hat  it  was  impossible  for  the  lecture  to  be  held  in  that 
lace,  and  befimil  the  audience  to  adjourn  to  the  Sheldonian 
lieatre.  At  bust,  welcomed  by  all  Oxford,  the  Slade 
'rofi-ssor  ap|x'antl,  to  deliver  his  inaufjural  address. 
Tliose  earlier  courses  arc  .still  fix-sli  in  the  memorj'  of  many 
youiui  hearer  who  hiLs  forgotten,  in  the  stress  of  busy  life, 
luch  else  of  what  he  saw  and  leanieil  at  OxfortI,  twenty 
tars  ago.  We  undergraduates  useil  to  run  out  to  the 
luseum  or  to  the  Drawing  School,  where  the  lectures  were 
ivcn,  in  a  scrambling  hurry  from  our  Etliics  or  Piose  Claris, 


272        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  IIUSKIN 

or  of  an  afternoon  leaving  the  hasty  lunclieon, — and  gi  ring 
up  the  river — grumbling  at  the  awkward  hours  which,  as  the 
Professor  often  told  us,  he  could  never  arrange  to  suit  every- 
body. And  when  we  reached  the  place  it  was  to  find  half 
the  seats  taken  by  earlier  comers,  whose  broad  hats,  then  in 
the  fashion,  were  completely  in  the  way  of  seeing  the  lecturer 
and  the  illustrations  he  had  brought.  But  still  we  went, 
crowds  of  us ;  for  there  was  always  something  to  interest, 
and  a  dim  sense  that  it  was  an  opportunity  which  might  soon 
be  lost,  of  hearing  one  that  spoke  with  authority,  and  not  as 
the  dons.* 

It  was  not  strictly  academic,  the  way  he  used  to  come  in, 
with  a  little  following  of  familiars  and  assistants, — exchange 
recognition  with  friends  in  the  audience,  arrange  the  objects 
he  had  brought  to  show, — fling  off  his  long-sleeved  Master's 
gown,  and  plunge  into  his  discourse.  His  manner  of  delivery 
had  not  altered  much  since  the  time  of  the  Edinburgli 
Lectures.  He  used  to  begin  by  reading,  in  his  curious 
intonation,  the  carefully-written  passages  of  rhetoric,  which 
usually  occupied  only  about  the  half  of  his  hour.  By-and-by 
he  would  break  oft",  and  with  quite  another  air  extemporise  the 
liveliest  interpolations,  describing  his  diagrams  or  specimens, 
restating  his  arguments,  re-enforcing  his  appeal.  His  voice, 
till  then  artificially  cadenced,  suddenly  became  vivacious ;  his 
gestures,  at  first  constrained,  became  dramatic.  He  used  to 
act  his  subject,  apparently  without  premeditated  art,  in  the 
liveliest  pantomime.  He  had  no  power  of  voice-mimicry, 
and  none  of  the  ordinary  gifts  of  the  actor.  A  tall  and  slim 
figure,  not  yet  shortened  from  its  five  feet  ten  or  eleven  by 
the  habitual  stoop,  which  ten  years  later  brought  him 
down  to  less  than  middle  height;  a  stiff,  blue  frock-coat;  ; 
prominent,  half-starched  wristbands,  and  tall  callars  of  the  , 
Gladstonian  tyjje ;  and  the  bright  blue  stock  which  every  one  ' 
knows  for  his  heraldic  bearing :  no  rings  or  gewgaws,  but  a 
long   thin   gold   chain    to  his  watch:— -a  plain   old-English    J 

•  The  inaugural  course  was  given  Feb.  8,  16,  23  ;  March  3,  9,  16  and 
23.  1870. 


FIRST  OXFORD  LECTURES  273 

pcntleman,  neither  fashionable  bourgeois  nor  artistic  mounte- 
buiik. 

But  he  pave  himself  over  to  his  subject  with  such 
unreserve*!  intensity  of  ininginative  power,  he  felt  so  vividly 
anil  s|>oke  so  from  the  heart,  that  he  became  whatever  he 
talked  about,  never  heeding  his  professorial  dignity,  and 
never  doubting  the  sympathy  of  his  audience.  Lecturing  on 
binis,  he  strutted  like  the  chough,  made  himself  winj:;s  like 
the  swallow ;  he  was  for  the  monient  a  cat,  in  explaining 
that  engraving  was  the  art  of  scratching.  If  it  had  been  an 
afl'ectation  of  theatric  display,  we  '  emancipated  school-boys,' 
as  the  Miister  of  Universitv  used  to  call  us,  would  have  seen 
through  it  at  once,  and  sconietl  him.  But  it  was  so  evidently 
the  expression  of  his  intense  eagerness  for  his  subject,  so 
palpably  true  to  his  j)urpose,  and  he  so  carried  his  hearers 
with  him,  that  one  saw  in  the  grotesque  of  the  performance 
only  the  guarantee  of  sinceritv. 

If  one  wanteil  more  proof  of  that,  there  was  his  face, 
still  young-looking  anil  beardless ;  made  for  expression,  and 
sensitive  to  everv  change  of  emotion.  A  long  head,  with 
enormous  capacity  of  brain,  veiled  by  thick  wavy  hair,  not 
aflecteiUy  lengthy  but  as  abundant  as  ever,  and  darkened 
into  a  deep  brown,  without  a  trace  of  grey ;  and  short  light 
whiskers  growing  high  over  his  cheeks.  x\  forehcatl  not  on 
the  model  of  the  heroic  tvpe,  but  a-s  if  the  .sculptor  had 
heapetl  his  clay  in  handfuls  over  the  eyebrows,  and  then 
heajKHl  more.  A  big  nose,  ai|uiline,  and  broad  at  the  base, 
with  great  thoroughbrtxl  nostrils  and  the  'septum' between 
them  thin  and  deeply  depres.sed  ;  and  there  was  a  turn  down 
at  the  i-oniers  of  the  mouth,  and  a  breadth  of  lower  lip,  that 
reminded  one  of  his  N'erona  griffin,  half  eagle,  half  lion ; 
Scotch  in  original  tv|»e,  and  suggesting  a  side  to  his  character 
not  all  milk  and  roses.  And  under  shaggy  eyebrows,  ever  so 
far  behind — «oT»;pf<f)ft< — the  (ieriest  blue  eyes,  that  changed 
with  changing  expression,  from  grave  to  gay,  from  livi'lv  to 
severe;  thai  riveted  vou,  magneti.seil  you,  seemiil  to  look 
through  you   and   read    your  soul ;    and   indeed,   when   they 


274        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

iij^hted  on  you,  you  felt  you  had  a  soul  of  a  sort.  '\^'Tl^>t 
they  really  saw  is  a  mystery.  Some  who  had  not  persuaded 
them  to  see  as  others  see,  maintained  that  they  only  saw 
%vhat  they  looked  for ;  othei-s,  who  had  successfully  deceived 
them,  that  they  saw  nothing.  No  douht  they  might  be 
deceived ;  but  I  know  now  that  they  often  took  far  shrewder 
measurements  of  men — I  do  not  say  of  women — than  an)  body 
suspected. 

For  the  Inaugural  Course,  he  was,  so  to  speak,  on  his  best 
behaviour,  guarding  against  too  hasty  expression  of  indi- 
viduality. He  read  careful  orations,  stating  his  maturest 
views  on  the  general  theory  of  art,  in  picked  language, 
suited  to  the  academic  position.  The  little  volume  is  most 
valuable  as  giving  Rusk  in  on  Art  at  his  best.  It  is  not 
discursive  or  entertaining,  like  '  IModern  Painters,'  and  con- 
tains no  pictures  either  with  pen  or  pencil ;  but  it  is 
crammed  full  of  thouglit,  and  of  the  results  of  thought ; 
for  any  one  whose  general  knowledge  is  e(]ual  to  interpreting 
it,  the  most  valuable  guide.  One  understands  why  the 
public  which  loves  its  '  Modern  Painters '  does  not  read  the 
'  Lectures  on  Art,'  but  it  is  surely  an  oversight  on  the  part 
of  many  would-be  critics  of  Ruskinism  to  ignore  the  re- 
statement, in  a  serious  course  of  lectures  before  an  educated 
audience,  of  views  which  youthful  works  either  failed  to 
expound,  or  expounded  in  a  loose  and  inadequate  manner. 

The  Slade  Professor  was  also  expected  to  organise  and 
superintend  the  teaching  of  drawing ;  and  his  first  words  in 
the  fii-st  lecture  expressed  the  hope  that  he  would  be  able  to 
intioduce  some  serious  study  of  Art  into  the  University, 
which,  he  thought,  would  be  a  step  toward  realising  some  of 
his  ideals  of  education.  He  had  long  felt  that  mere  talking 
about  Art  was  a  makeshift,  and  that  no  real  insight  could  be 
got  into  the  subject  without  actual  and  practical  dealing  with 
it.  He  found  a  South  Kensington  School  in  existence  at 
Oxford,  with  an  able  master,  Mr.  Alexander  IMacdonald; 
and  though  he  did  not  entirely  apjirove  of  the  methods  in 
ise,  tried  to  make  the  best   of  the  materials   to  his  hand. 


FIRST  OXrOIlI)  LECTURES  275 

icccptin;^  hut  enl;>rf;ing  the  scope  of  the  system.  ITie  South 
Keiisiii^jtoii  ni<!lho(l  hiul  been  devisetl  for  inilustrial  desigjiing, 
priumiily;  Mr.  Ruskiu's  desire  was  to  get  uiulerfjradudte.s  to 
take  ii|)  a  wider  subjeet,  to  familiarise  themselves  with  the 
;c<hnical  exeellenees  of  the  great  ma-stei-s,  to  study  natuix', 
uid  the  diderent  processes  of  art, — drawing,  painting  and  some 
"ornis  of  decorative  work,  such  as,  in  especial,  goldsmiths' 
»ork,  out  of  which  the  Florentine  school  had  sprung.  He 
lid  not  wish  to  train  artists,  but,  as  before  in  the  Working 
Men's  College,  to  cultivate  the  habit  of  mind  that  looks  at 
lature  and  life,  not  analytically,  as  science  does,  but  for  the 
uike  of  external  a.spect  antl  expression.  By  these  means  he 
lopeil  to  breed  a  rac-e  of  judicious  patrons  and  critics,  the 
X>st  sorvii-e  any  man  can  render  to  the  cause  of  art. 

And  so  he  got  together  a  mitss  of  examples  in  midition  to 
the  'I'urners  which  he  had  already  given  to  the  University 
ifalleries.  Ho  placed  in  the  sihool  a  few  pictures  by  Tintoret, 
lome  drawings  by  Rossetti,  Holinan  Hunt,  and  Bumc-Jones, 
ind  a  great  numlier  of  fine  casts  anil  engravings.  He  arranged 
i  series  of  stuilies  bv  hini.self  and  others,  as  '  copies,'  Hlted, 
like  the  Turners  in  the  National  (lallery,  with  sliding  frames 
in  cabinets  for  convenient  reference  and  removal.  After 
ipending  most  of  his  first  I>ent  Term  in  this  work,  he  went 
liome  for  a  month  to  pre|)iire  a  catalogue,  which  was  published 
the  same  year:  the  school  not  being  finally  opened  until 
3ctolKr  IHTl.  During  these  first  visits  to  Oxford  he  was 
Lhe  guest  of  Sir  Henry  Acland ;  on  April  29,  1871,  I'ro- 
Fessor  Ruskin,  already  hononiry  student  of  Christ  Church, 
«ras  electetl  to  an  honorary  fellowship  at  Corjius,  and  enabled 
to  occupy  rooms,  vacated  by  the  Rev.  Henry  Furiieaux,  who 
pive  up  his  fellowship  on  marrying  Mr.  .tVrthur  Severn's  twin- 
listcr.* 

♦  lu  a  charming  paper  (Pelican  Rfcord  tor  Jnae,  1894)  Mr.  J.  W. 
Mdie  give*  aonie  reiuiniticeucts  of  '  Ku«kiu  at  Corpus';  describiog  the 
iereniiiiiy  of  liia  adiui.isioii,  hia  quaint  aud  humorous  convemation  in 
the  L'uuinii>u  lC<M)ni,  ami  his  ruuuis  (t'cllowa'  buildiiign.  No.  2  HUiircasp, 
Int  tluur  ri^lit)  with  their  Turueni  aud  Tiliau,  IU|jhael  portrait  uiid 
IIeii«<<Mier  '  Na(K)leuii.' 

18— a 


276        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

After  this  work  well  began,  he  went  abroad  for  a  vacation 
tour  with  a  party  of  friends — as  in  1866 ;  Lady  Trevelyan's 
sister,  Mrs.  Hilliard,  to  chaperone  the  same  young  ladies,  and 
three  servants  with  them.  They  started  on  Af)ril  27th; 
stayed  awhile  at  Meurice's  to  see  Paris ;  and  at  Geneva,  to 
go  up  the  Saleve,  twice,  in  bitter  black  east  wind.  Then 
across  the  Siniplon  to  Milan  and  Venice,  where  he  made  the 
careful  drawing  given  to  the  Oxford  Schools  (engraved  in 
Cook's  '  Studies  in  Ruskin ').  This  however  was  to  be  a  com- 
plete holiday,  and  he  devoted  himself  to  his  company.  After 
a  month  at  Venice  and  Verona,  where  he  recurred  to  his 
scheme  against  inundation,  then  ridiculed  by  Punch,  but 
afterwards  taken  up  seriously  by  the  Italians,  they  went  to 
Florence,  and  met  Professor  Norton.  In  the  end  of  June 
they  turned  homewards,  by  Pisa  and  Lucca,  INIilan  and  Como, 
and  went  to  visit  their  friend  Marie  of  the  Giessbach. 

At  the  Giessbach  they  spent  a  fortnight,  enjoying  the  July 
weather  and  glorious  walks,*  in  the  middle  of  which  war  was 
suddenly  declared  between  Germany  and  France.  The 
summons  of  their  German  waiter  to  join  his  regiment, 
brought  the  news  home  to  them,  as  such  personal  examples 
do,  more  than  columns  of  newspaper  print ;  and  as  hostilities 
were  rapidly  beginning,  ]\Ir.  Ruskin,  with  the  gloomiest  fore- 
bodings for  the  beautiful  country  he  loved,  took  his  party 
home  straight  across  France,  before  the  ways  should  be  closed. 

August  was  a  month  of  feverish  suspense  to  everybody  ;  to 
no  one  more  than  to  Mr.  Ruskin,  who  watched  the  progress 
of  the  armies  while  he  worked  day  by  day  at  the  British 
Museum  preparing  lectures  for  next  term.  This  was  the 
course  on  Greek  relief- sculpture,  published  as  'Aratra 
Pentelici.'j-  It  was  a  happy  thought  to  illustrate  his  subject 
from  coins,  rather  than  from  disputed  and  mutilated 
f-agments  ;  and  he  worked  into  it  his  revised  theory  of  the 
origin  of  art — not  Schiller's  nor  Herbert  Spencer's,  and  yet 

♦  During  one  of  which  occurred  the  adventure  of   the  snake  that 
ihowed  presence  of  mind,  told  iu  the  '  Eagle's  Nest,'  §  101. 
t  Delivered  Nov.  24,  26,  Dec.  1,  3,  8  and  10,  187a 


FIRST  OXFORD  LECTURES  277 

nkin  to  theirs  of  llie  '  Spicltricb,' — involving  the  notion  of 
doll-play  ; — man  as  a  child,  re-ircating  himself,  in  a  double 
sense  ;  imitating  the  creation  of  the  world,  and  really  creating 
a  sort  of  seconilarv  life  in  his  art,  to  play  with,  or  to  woivhip. 
This  hook,  too,  the  critics  of  Ruskin  have  unanimously  over- 
looked ;  except  for  the  hi-st  lecture  of  the  series  (published 
sejiarately)  in  which  the  IVofessor  compared — as  the  outcome 
of  classic  art  in  Renaissance  times — Michelangelo  anil  Tintoret, 
greatly  to  the  disadvantage  of  Michelangelo.  This  heresy 
against  a  popular  creed  served  as  text  for  some  severe  criticism 
of  Mr.  Ruskin's  art  teaching  by  followers  of  the  academic 
school ;  but  as  he  sjiid  in  a  prefatory  note  to  the  pamphlet, 
readei-s  '  must  observe  that  its  business  is  only  to  jwint  out 
what  is  to  be  blamed  in  Michael  Angelo,  and  that  it  assumes 
the  fact  of  his  power  to  be  generally  known,'  and  he  refers  to 
Mr.  Tyrwhitt's  'Lectures  ou  Cluisliaii  Art'  for  the  opposite 
side  of  the  question. 

Meanwhile  the  war  was  raging.  IMr.  Ruskin  was  asted  by 
his  friends  to  raise  his  voice  against  the  ravage  of  France ; 
but  he  replied  that  it  was  inevitable.  At  la.st,  in  October,  he 
rernl  how  Rosii  Ronheur  and  Eilouard  Frere  hati  *been 
permitteil  to  pass  through  the  German  lines,  and  next  day 
came  the  news  of  the  bombardment  of  Strashurg,  with 
anticipations  of  the  destruction  of  the  Cathedral,  library, 
and  picture  galleries,  foretelling,  as  it  seemeil,  the  more 
terrible  and  irrejiarable  ruin  of  the  treasure-houses  of  art  in 
Paris.  His  heart  was  with  the  French,  and  he  broke  silence 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  spirit,  upbraiding  their  disorder  anti 
showing  how  the  German  success  was  the  victory  of  'one  of 
the  truest  monarchies  and  schools  of  honour  and  obeilience 
yet  organiseil  under  heaven.'  He  hopctl  that  Germany,  now 
that  she  had  shown  her  power,  would  withdraw,  and  demand 
no  indenuiity.      Rut  that  was  too  much  to  ask. 

Before  long  Faris  itself  became  the  scene  of  action,  and  in 
January  1871  was  besieged  and  bombartled.  So  much  of 
Mr.  Raskin's  work  and  atlection  had  been  given  to  1-ieruli 
Gothic  that  be  i-ould   not  endure  to  think   uf   his   beloved 


278        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHx\  RUSKIN 

Sainte  C'hapelle  as  being  actually  under  fire — to  say  nothing 
of  the  horror  of  human  suffering  in  a  siege.  He  joined 
Cardinal  (then  Archbishop)  Manning,  Professor  Huxley,  Sir 
John  Lubbock  and  Mr.  James  Knowles  in  forming  a  '  Paris 
Food  Fund,'  which  shortly  united  with  the  Lord  Mayor's 
committee  for  the  general  relief  of  the  besieged.  The  day 
after  writing  on  the  Sainte  Chapelle  he  attended  the  meeting 
at  the  IVIansion  House,  and  gave  a  subscription  of  i?50.  He 
followed  events  anxiously  through  the  storm  of  the  Connnune 
and  its  fearful  ending,  angered  at  the  fratricide  and  anarchy 
which  no  Mansion-House  help  could  avert  or  repair. 

It  was  no  time  for  talking  on  art,  he  felt :  instead  of  the 
full  course,  he  could  only  manage  three  lectures  on  landscape, 
and  these  not  so  completelv  prepared  as  to  make  them  readv 
for  printing.  Refore  Christmas  he  had  been  once  more  to 
Woolwich,  where  Colonel  Brackenburv  invited  him  to  address 
the  cadets  at  the  prize-giving  of  the  Science  and  Art  depart- 
ment,* in  which  the  Rev.  W.  Kingsley,  an  old  friend  of  Mr. 
Ruskin's  and  of  Turner's,  was  one  of  the  masters.  Two  of 
the  lectures  of  the  '  Crown  of  ^Vild  Olive '  had  been  given 
there,  with  more  than  usual  animation,  and  enthusiastically 
received  bv  crowded  and  distinguished  audiences,  among 
whom  was  Prince  Arthur  (the  Duke  of  Connaught),  then  at 
the  Royal  Military  Academy.  This  time  it  was  the  '  Story 
of  Arachne,'  an  address  on  education  and  aims  in  life;  open- 
ing with  reminiscences  of  his  own  childhood,  and  pleasantly 
telling  the  Greek  myths  of  the  spider  and  th-  .Mit,  with  in- 
terpretations for  the  times. 

The  three  lectures  on  k;idscape,f  or  rather,  th  contrast  of 
the  Greek  and  Gothic  spirit  as  seen  chiefly  i^  'nndscape 
painters,  were  briefly  reported  in  the  Athcrnvum.  in  the.-e 
he  dwelt  on  the  necessity  of  human  and  historic  ir*erest  in 
scenery  ;  and  compared  Greek  '  solidity  and  veracit'  '  with 
Gothic  '  spirituality  and  mendacity,'  Greek  chiaroscu;"  and 
tranquil  activity  with  Gothic  colour  and  'passionate  ^est.' 
Botticelli's  '  Nativity'  (now  in  the  National  Galipry)  was,  tUon 
«  Dec.  13,  1870.  f  Given  Jan.  20,  Feb.  9  and  23,  1871 


HRST  OXFORD  LECTURES  270 

bcinn;  shown  at  the  Old  Masters'  Exliihition,  nnd  Mr.  Ruskin 
took  it,  aloiif;  witli  the  works  ot"  C'iiiui,  as  a  tvpc  of  one  form 
of  Greek  Art.  Ruheiis  ami  Heiiil)ran(lt  he  considered  as  less 
refined  developments  of  the  same  spirit. 

In  the  greatest  painters,  he  said,  tlio  excellences  of  the 
two  schools  were  united  :  Titian  and  Tintoret  were  Gothic 
L-olourists  approaching  the  Greek  itieal :  Ilolhcin  and  Turner 
were  chiaroscurists  of  tlie  Greek  type,  blossoming  into  colour. 
In  lanilscape,  he  said,  there  was  little  that  perfcrtlv  illustrated 
[he  Gothic  spirit,  'llie  Pre-Raphaelite  RrotluThood  and 
their  school  tried  to  revive  it,  but  they  luulervahicd  the 
litliculty  of  their  art,  and  took  refuge  in  dramatic  sensation 
nstead  of  making  themselves  the  competent  exj)onents  of 
real  beauty ;  and  faileii. 

This  1«71  was  an  eventful  year  in  Mr.  Ruskin's  home  life, 
[n  April  his  cousin.  Miss  Agnew,  who  hail  been  seven  vears 
it  Denmark  Hill,  was  nmrrietl  to  Mr.  Arthur  Severn,  and  left 
ler  friends  as  sheep  without  a  shepherdess.  Mr.  Ruskin,  who 
;iad  addeil  to  his  other  work  the  additional  labour  of  '  Fors 
[^lavigera,'  went  for  a  sunnners  change  to  Matlock.  July 
jpenetl  with  colil,  dry,  dark  weather,  dangerous  for  out-of-door 
iketching.  One  morning  early — for  he  wius  always  an  early 
•iser — he  took  a  chill  while  painting  a  s|)ray  of  wild  rose 
jcfore  breakfast  (the  drawing  now  in  the  Oxford  Schools). 
He  was  already  overworked,  and  it  ended  in  a  severe  attack 
)f  internal  inflammation  which  nearly  cost  him  his  life.  He 
was  a  diflicult  patient  to  deal  with.  Though  one  of  his  host 
'riends  was  a  j)hysician  and  another  a  surgeon  he  usually  prc- 
'errwl  to  l)e  his  own  doctor,  as  long  as  he  coulil,  believing  more 
n  diet  and  exercise  than  in  metlicinc.  The  local  practitioner 
*ho  attenileil  him  usetl  to  tell  how  he  refused  remetlies,  and  in 
;he  height  of  the  disease  aske<l  what  would  be  icor.st  for  him. 
[  was  told  at  Matlock  that  the  answer  was  'sherry';  Mr. 
Ruskin  himself  sjiid  it  was  beef!  Anyhow,  he  took  it ;  and 
;o  everyboily's  surprise,  recovered.* 

*  Mrs.  Artliur  Severn,  in  a  note  on  the  proof,  i&yt :  '  It  was  a  slice 
}i  cold  roast  be«i  be  huogereJ  for,  at  Matlock  (to  our  horror,  and  dear 


280        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

But  it  had  been  a  painful  scare  to  his  friends — especially  to 
those  who  could  get  no  news.  Carlyle,  who  had  been  in  the 
Highlands,  with  his  right  hand  useless,  and  his  amanuensis. 
Miss  Aitken,  far  away,  was  surprised  and  distressed  at  the 
silence  of  his  friend,  and  at  last  wTote  anxiously  : —  .  .  . 
'  There  came  the  most  alarming  rumours  of  your  illness  at 
Matlock  ;  and  both  Lady  Ashburton  and  myself  (especially 
the  latter  party,  for  whom  I  can  answer  best)  were  in  a  state 
really  deserving  pity  on  your  account,  till  the  very  newsjiapers 
took  compassion  on  us,  and  announced  the  immediate  danger 
to  be  past.  .  .  .  Froude  has  returned,  and  is  often  asking 
about  you  ;  as  indeed  are  many  others,  to  whom  the  radiant 
qualities  which  the  gods  have  given  you  and  set  you  to  work 
with,  in  such  an  element,  are  not  unknown.  Write  me  a  word 
at  once,  dear  Ruskin.'' 

During  the  illness  at  IVIatlock  his  thoughts  reverted  to 
the  old  '  Iteriad '  times  of  forty  years  before,  when  he  had 
travelled  with  his  parents  and  cousin  IMary  from  that  same 
'  New  Bath  Hotel,'  where  he  was  now  lying,  to  the  Lakes ; 
and  again  he  wearied  for  '  the  heights  that  look  adown  upon 
the  dale.  The  crags  are  lone  on  Coniston.'  If  he  could  only 
lie  down  there,  he  said,  he  should  get  well  again. 

He  had  not  fully  recovered  before  he  heard  that  ]\Ir.  W.  J. 
Linton,  the  poet  and  wood-engraver,  wished  to  sell  a  house 
and  land  at  the  very  place:  dfloOO,  and  it  could  be  his. 
Without  question  asked  he  bought  it  at  once;    and  as  it 


Lady  Mount  Temple's,  who  were  nursing  him)  :  there  was  none  in  the 
hotel,  and  it  was  late  at  night ;  and  Albert  Goodwin  went  otf  to  get 
Bome,  somewhere,  or  anywhere.  All  the  hotels  were  closed  ;  but  at 
last,  at  an  eating-house  in  Matlock  Bath,  he  discovered  some,  and  came 
back  triumphant  with  it,  wrapped  up  in  pajier  ;  and  J.  R.  enjoyed  his 
late  supper  thoroughly  ;  and  though  we  all  waited  anxiously  till  the 
morning  for  the  result,  it  had  done  no  harm  !  And  when  he  was  told 
pepper  was  bad  for  him,  he  dredged  it  freely  over  his  food  in  defiance  ! 
It  was  directly  after  our  return  to  Denmark  Hill  he  got  Linton's  letter 
otferiug  him  this  place  (Braiitwood).  There  are,  I  believe,  ten  acres  o£> 
Boor  belonging  to  Brantwood.'  Mr.  Albert  Goodwin,  R.W.S.,  tha^l 
landscape  painter,  travelled,  about  this  time,  in  Italy  with  Mr.  Ruskin. 


FIRST  OXFORD  LECTURES  281 

«roulil  be  impossible  to  lecture  at  Oxford  so  soon  after  his 
illness,  he  sit  ort',  before  the  niicUlle  of  September,  with  his 
friends  tlie  Ililliards  to  visit  his  new  possession.  Tiiey  found 
a  rouj^h-cast  country  cottajje,  old,  damp,  decayed  ;  smoky 
chinuieyeil  and  rat-riddled  ;  but  '  live  acres  of  rock  and  moor 
and  streandet ;  and,'  he  wrote,  '  I  think  the  finest  view  I 
know  in  Cumberland  or  Lancashire,  with  the  sunset  visible 
over  the  sjinie.' 

The  spot  was  not,  even  then,  without  its  associations: 
Gerald  Massey  the  poet,  Mr.  W.  J.  Linton,  and  his  wife 
Mi-s.  Lynn  Linton  the  novelist.  Dr.  G.  W.  Kitchin  (Dean  of 
Durham)  had  lived  and  worked  there,  and  former  inhabitants 
had  adorned  it  outside  with  revolutionary  mottoes — '  God 
and  the  peo|)Ie,'  and  so  on.  It  had  been  a  favourite  point 
of  view  of  Wordsworth's;  his  'seat'  was  pointed  out  in 
the  ■ijrounds.  Tennyson  had  lived  for  a  while  close  by :  his 
'seat,'  too,  was  on  the  hill  above  Lmehead. 

But  the  cottaf^e  needed  thorough  repair,  and  that  cost 
more  than  rebuilding,  not  to  speak  of  the  additions  of  later 
ycai-s,  which  have  ended  by  making  it  into  a  mansion  sur- 
i-ounded  by  a  handet.  And  thei-e  was  the  furnishing;  for 
Denmark  Hill,  where  his  mother  lived,  was  still  to  be  head- 
quarters. Mr.  lluskin  gave  carte-blanche  to  the  London 
upholsterer  with  whom  he  had  been  accustomed  to  deal  ;  and 
such  expensive  articles  were  sent  that  when  he  came  down  for 
a  month  next  autumn,  he  reckoned  that,  all  included,  his 
country  cottage  had  cost  him  not  le.ss  than  i.'-tOOO. 

Rut  he  was  not  the  man  to  spend  on  liimself  without 
sharing  his  wealth  with  othei-s.  On  Nov.  2^nd,  Convocation 
iccepteil  a  gift  from  the  Slade  Profes.sor  of  i.'50(H)  to  endow 
%  nuustership  of  drawing  at  Oxford,  in  addition  to  the  pictures 
find  *  copies '  placed  in  the  schools ;  he  had  set  up  a  relative 
in  business  with  1'15,000,  which  was  unfortunately  lost; 
»nd  at  Christmas  he  gave  ITOOO,  the  tithe  of  his  remain- 
ing capital,  to  tlie  St.  George's  Fund  ;  of  which  more  here- 
ifter. 

On  November  23rd   he  was  elected    Lord    Hector  of  St. 


282        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Andrew's  University  by  86  votes  against  79  for  Lord  Lytton. 
After  the  election  it  was  discovered  that,  by  the  Scottish 
Univei-sities  Act  of  1858,  no  one  holding  a  professoi-ship  at  a 
British  University  was  eligible.  Professor  Ruskin  was  dis- 
qualified, and  gave  no  address ;  and  Lord  Neaves  was  chosen 
in  his  place. 

Mrs.  Ruskin  was  now  ninety  years  of  age :  her  sight  was 
nearly  gone,  but  she  still  retained  her  powers  of  mind,  and 
ruled  with  severe  kindliness  her  household  and  her  son.  Her 
old  servant  Anne  had  died  in  March.  Anne  had  nursed  John 
Ruskin  as  a  baby,  and  had  lived  with  the  family  ever  since, 
devoted  to  them,  and  ready  for  any  disagreeable  task,  '  so  that 
she  was  never  quite  in  her  glory,'  '  Praeterita '  says,  '  unless 
some  of  us  were  ill.  She  had  also  some  parallel  speciality  for 
saying  disagreeable  things,  and  might  be  relied  upon  to  give 
the  extremely  darkest  view  of  any  subject,  before  proceeding 
to  ameliorative  action  upon  it.  And  she  had  a  very  credit- 
able and  republican  aversion  to  doing  immediately,  or  in  set 
terms,  as  she  was  bid  ;  so  that  when  my  mother  and  she  got 
old  together,  and  my  mother  became  very  imperative  and 
particular  about  having  her  teacup  set  on  one  side  of  her 
little  round  table,  Anne  would  observantly  and  punctiliously 
put  it  always  on  the  other  :  which  caused  my  mother  to  state 
to  me,  every  morning  after  breakfast,  gravely,  that  if  ever  a 
woman  in  this  world  was  possessed  by  the  Devil,  Anne  was 
that  woman.' 

But  this  gloomy  Cahnnism  was  tempered  with  a  bene- 
volence quite  as  uncommon.  It  was  from  his  parents  that 
]\Ir.  Ruskin  learned  never  to  turn  off  a  servant,  and  the 
Denmark  Hill  household  was  as  easy-going  as  the  legendary 
'  baronial '  retinue  of  the  good  old  times.  A  young  friend 
asked  ]\Irs.  Ruskin,  in  a  moment  of  indiscretion,  what  such 
a  one  of  the  ancient  maids  did, — for  there  were  several 
without  apparent  occupation  about  the  house.  Mrs.  Ruskin 
drew  herself  up  and  said,  'She,  my  dear,  puts  out  the 
dessert.' 

And  yet,  in  her  blindness,   she  could  read  character  un- 


FIRST  OXFORD  LECITJRES  283 

hesitatinijly.  Tliat  was,  no  doiiht,  why  people  feared  her. 
Wlicii  Mr.  Secrt'tarv  Howell,  in  the  days  when  he  was  still 
the  oracle  of  the  lluskin-Hossetti  circle,  liatl  been  rerraling 
them  with  his  woiulerfiil  tales,  after  dinner,  she  would  thraw 
tier  netting  down  and  say,  '  How  can  you  two  sit  there  and 
listen  to  such  a  pack  of  lies?'  She  objected  strongly,  in 
these  later  years,  to  the  theatre;  and  when  sometimes  her  son 
would  wish  to  take  a  partv  into  town  to  see  the  last  new 
piece,  her  permis.sion  had  to  be  asked,  and  was  not  reailily 
[jrantinl,  unless  to  Aliss  Agnew,  who  was  the  amba-ssadrcss  in 
such  artiiii-s  of  diplomacy.  Hut  while  disapproving  of  some  of 
his  worlilly  ways,  and  convincetl  that  she  had  too  much 
indulged  his  childhood,  the  olil  lady  loved  him  with  all  the 
intensity  of  the  strange  lierce  lioness  nature,  which  only  one 
or  two  had  ever  had  a  glimpse  of  And  when  (Dec.  5th, 
1S71)  she  died,  trusting  to  see  her  husband  again — not  to  be 
near  him,  not  to  be  so  high  in  heaven,  but  content  if  she 
might  only  sec  him,  she  said — her  son  wa.s  left  '  with  a  sur- 
prising sense  of  loneliness.'  He  had  loved  her  truly,  obeyed 
her  strictly  and  tended  her  faithfully  ;  and  even  yet  hardly 
realized  liow  much  she  had  been  to  him.  He  buried  her  in 
his  father's  grave,  and  wrote  upon  it,  '  Here  bcsiile  my  father's 
bo<ly  I  have  laid  my  mother's :  nor  was  dearer  earth  ever 
returned  to  earth,  nor  purer  life  recorded  in  heaven.'* 

♦  Tlii«  inscriplion  waa  added  about  1885  :  the  monument  waa 
Mr.  Rnikiii's  design.  The  place  had  been  chosen  rather  for  itn 
pictiire»<iue  surroundings  than  for  family  associations  ;  Shirley  l)eing 
nieri'ly  a  favourite  drive.  Its  name  is  now  well  known  to  garden- 
loven<  from  the  Shirley  poppy,  first  grown  there  \)j  the  clergyman  of 
Jie  plikce.  Canon  Wilkes 


CHAPTER  n. 

•FOES'  BEGUN.    (1871-1872.) 

'  Nous  ne  recevons  I'existence 
Qu'afin  de  travailler  pour  nou8,  ou  pcur  autral; 
De  ce  devoir  saor^  quicouque  se  dispense 
Est  puni  par  la  Provideuce, 
Par  le  besoin,  ou  par  I'eimui.' 

Florian. 

ON  January  1st,  1871,  was  issued  a  small  pamphlet, 
headed  '  Fors  Clavigera,"  in  the  form  of  a  letter  to 
the  working  men  and  lahourers  of  England,  dated 
from  Denmark  Hill,  and  signed  '  John  Ruskin.'  It  was  not 
published  in  the  usual  way,  but  sold  by  the  author's  engraver, 
Mr.  George  Allen,  at  Heathfield  Cottage,  Keston,  Kent.  It 
was  not  advertised  ;  press-co]iies  were  sent  to  the  leading 
papers ;  and  of  course  the  author's  acquaintance  knew  of  its  ; 
publication.  Strangers,  who  heard  of  this  curious  proceeding,  \ 
spread  the  report  that  in  oi-der  to  get  Ruskin's  latest,  you  had  ^' 
to  travel  into  the  country,  with  your  sevenpence  in  your  haiKi, 
and  transact  your  business  among  Mr.  Allen's  beehives.  So 
you  had,  if  you  wanted  to  see  what  you  were  buying ;  for  no 
arrangements  were  made  for  its  sale  by  the  booksellers  : 
sevenpence  a  copy,  carriage  paid,  no  discount,  and  no  abate- 
ment on  taking  a  quantity. 

By  such  pilgrimages,  but  more  easily  through  the  post,  the 
new  work  filtered  out,  in  monthly  instahnents,  to  a  limited 
number  of  buyers.  After  three  years  the  price  was  raised  to 
tenpence.     In  1875  the  first  thousands  of  the  earlier  numbera 


'FORS'  BEGUN  285 

were  sold  : — '  tlie  public  has  a  very  lonjr  nose,"  Mr.  Ruskin 
once  saiil,  '  niul  sients  out  wlint  it  wants,  sooner  or  later.' 
A  second  edition  was  issued,  bound  up  into  yearly  volumes, 
of  which  eif^lit  were  ultimately  completed.  Meanwhile  the 
work  went  on,  something  in  the  style  of  the  old  Addison 
SjJtrtiitar ;  each  jiart  containing  twenty  pages,  more  or  less, 
by  Mr.  Ruskin,  with  added  contributions  from  various 
cori-espondents. 

'  Foi-s  Clavigera'  is  jiractically  a  continuation  of  'Time 
and  Tide,'  and  addressed,  not  to  '  working  men'  only,  but  to 
the  workei-s  of  England,  those  who,  like  Thomas  Uixon,  had 
ears  to  hear,  in  whatever  rank  of  life.  Its  name,  like  itself, 
is  mystic,  and  changes  content  as  it  goes  on.  The  Fate  or 
Force  that  bears  the  Club,  or  Key,  or  Nail :  that  is,  in  three 
aspects, — as  Following,  or  Fore-ordaining,  Deed  (or  Courage), 
and  I'aticnce,  and  Ijiws,  unknown  or  known,  of  nature  and 
life;  so  that  the  'Third  Fors,'  that  plays  so  large  a  part  in 
this  later  period,  is  simply  Fortune.  The  general  sense  of 
the  title  expresses  the  general  drift  of  the  work  ;  to  show 
that  life  is  to  be  bettered  by  each  man's  honest  effort,  and 
to  be  borne,  in  many  things  he  cannot  better,  by  his  wise 
resignation  ;  but  that  above  all,  and  through  all,  and  in  all, 
there  works  a  Power  outsi.le  of  him,  to  will  and  to  do,  to 
reward  and  to  jiunish,  eventually,  by  laws  which,  if  he 
choose,  he  may  jmrtially  understand,  and,  for  the  remainder, 
may  trust. 

To  read  'Fors'  is  like  being  out  in  a  thunderstorm.  At 
first,  you  open  the  book  with  interest,  to  watch  the  signs  of 
the  times.  While  you  climb  your  mountain — shall  we  say 
the  Old  Man  of  Coniston  .' — at  unawares  there  is  a  darkening 
of  the  cloud  u|)on  you,  and  the  tension  of  instinctive  dread, 
as  image  after  image  arises  of  misery,  and  muixler,  and 
lingering  death,  wilh  here  and  there  a  streak  of  sun  in  the 
foreground,  only  throwing  the  wildness  of  the  scene  into  more 
rugged  relief;  and  through  the  gaps  you  see  broad  fields  of 
ancient  history,  like  lands  of  promise  letl  behind.  By-and-by 
the  gloom  wraps  you.     The  old  thunder  of  the  Ruskinian 


286        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

paragraph,  shortened  now  to  whip-lash  cracks,  reverherates 
unremittingly  from  point  to  point,  raising  echoes,  sounding 
tieeps ;  allusions,  suggestions,  intimations,  stiixing  the  realm 
of  chaos,  that  ordinarily  we  are  glad  to  let  slumber,  but  now 
terribly  discern,  by  flashes  of  thought,  most  unexpectedly 
arriving.  Fascinated  by  the  hammer-play  of  Thor.  berserlv- 
ing  among  Rime-giants — customs  that  '  hang  upon  us,  heavy 
as  frost' — you  begin  to  applaud;  when  a  sudden  stroke  rolls 
your  own  standpoint  into  the  abyss.  But  if  you  can  climb 
forward,  undismayed,  to  the  summit,  the  storm  drifts  by ; 
and  you  see  the  world  again,  all  new,  beneath  you — how 
rippling  in  Thor's  laughter,  how  tenderly  veiled  in  his  tears ! 

The  charm  of  '  Fors '  is  neither  in  epigram  nor  in  anecdote, 
but  in  the  sustained  vivacity  that  runs  through  the  texture 
of  the  work  ;  the  reappearance  of  golden  threads  of  thought, 
glittering  in  new  figures,  and  among  new  colours ;  and 
throughout  all  the  variety  of  subject  a  unity  of  style  unlike 
the  style  of  his  earlier  works,  where  flowery  rhetorical 
passages  are  tagged  to  less  interesting  chapters,  separately 
studied  sermonettes  interposed  among  the  geology,  and 
Johnson,  Locke,  Hooker,  Carlyle — or  whoever  happened  to 
be  the  author  he  was  reading  at  the  time — frankly  imitated. 
It  was  always  clever,  but  often  artificial ;  like  the  composition 
of  a  Renaissance  painter  who  inserts  his  bel  corpo  ig-nudo  to 
catch  the  eye.  In  '  Fors,'  however,  the  web  is  of  a  piece, 
all  sparkling  with  the  same  life ;  though  as  it  is  gradually 
unwound  from  the  loom  it  is  hard  to  judge  the  design. 
That  can  only  be  done  when  it  is  reviewed  as  a  whole — an 
easv  task  now,  since  the  96  letters  have  been  printed  in  four 
small  volumes. 

At  the  time,  his  mingling  of  jest  and  earnest  was  mis- 
understood even  by  friends.  The  author  learnt  too  painfully 
the  danger  of  seeming  to  trifle  with  cherished  beliefs.  He 
forswore  levity,  but  soon  relapsed  into  the  old  style,  out  of 
sheer  sincerity  :  for  he  was  too  much  in  earnest  not  to  be 
frankly  himself  in  his  utterances,  without  writing  up  to,  or 
down  to,  any  other  person's  standard- 


•rOllS'  BEGUN  287 

With  all  the  dcilamntion,  and  all  the  wit,  there  was 
Buhstancc  enough  of  solid  and  reasonnhle  purpose  to  knit  the 
work  together.  It  was  h;irillv,  as  one  of  his  old  friends  said, 
his  niind's  wastepaper  basket ;  but  the  unfolding  of  wra])pings, 
perhaps  unncecssiirv,  roinul  a  delinitc  j)roposal.  He  began 
bv  declining  all  connection  with  ordinary  ])oiitical  life  in  any 
form  ;  he  siiid  that  the  existing  oilier  of  things  was  wholly 
wrong,  and  just  for  that  reason  the  existing  methods  of 
government  could  not  set  them  right,  by  acts  of  a  j)arliaiiient 
which  he  simply  declined  to  recognise  ,vs  efficient  to  co|)e  with 
the  question.  Instead  of  that,  ix-scuc  was  to  come  front  in- 
dividuals, as  it  has  always  done  before  in  times  of  barbarism 
an<l  anarchy.  If  men  would,  each  in  his  j)lace,  carry  out  the 
rudiments  of  justice  anil  social  morality — iloing  good  work 
well,  hel|>ing  others,  harming  none,  and  showing  themselves 
law-worthv — if  such-minded  men  and  women  would  withdraw 
from  the  struggle  for  success  in  the  world  and  set  the  example 
of  better  things  in  a  wholesome  country  life ;  that,  he  felt, 
would  ivally  ellect  a  change.  It  was  like  the  old  scheme  of 
St.  Henedict ;  the  formation  of  agricultural  communities  ;  by 
which  Kuropc  was,  even  more  than  by  the  feudal  and  chivalric 
institutions  iniitatetl  in  '  Time  and  Tide,'  foundetl  and  civilised 
out  of  swampy  forests  and  lawless  barbarism. 

Mr.  Ruskin  did  not  wish  to  lead  a  colony  or  to  head  a 
revolution.  He  had  been  j)ondering  for  fifteen  years  the 
cause  of  poverty  and  crime,  and  the  conviction  had  grown 
u|>on  him  that  modern  commercialism  was  at  the  root  of  it 
all.  Olher  men  in  other  lands  were  iK-ing  gradually  leil  to  the 
same  conclusion  by  dillerent  ways ;  and  I'lvnch  C'onnnunism, 
German  Socialism,  Russian  Anarchism,  were  the  expressions 
of  a  kin<lred  movement — but  very  dillerently  developed.  On 
the  Continent  the  wrong  was  ojjcn  and  obvious,  in  the  form 
of  tyrannical  government  in  church  and  state;  the  remedy 
sug/csted  bv  precedent  was  violent  rebellion.  Here,  in 
Ijigland.  with  apparent  liberty  of  conduct  anil  opinion,  the 
jime  evils  took  a  more  subtle  sha|ic;  and  were  jiractiseil  by 
the  kindliest  men  and  women  with  the  best  intentions.     The 


288        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

slow  and  sure  pace  of  our  constitutional  reforms  accustomed 
us  to  a  grumbling  content,  and  a  disinclination  for  extreme 
measures. 

Mr.  Ruskin's  attacks  on  commercialism — his  analysis  of  its 
bad  influence  on  all  sections  of  society — were  too  vigorous 
and  uncompromising  for  the  newspaper  editors  who  received 
'  Fors,'  and  even  for  most  of  his  private  friends.  There  were, 
however,  some  who  saw  what  he  was  aiming  at :  and  let  it  be 
remarked  that  his  first  encouragement  came  from  the  highest 
quarters.  Just  as  Sydney  Smith,  the  chief  critic  of  earlier 
days,  had  been  the  first  to  praise  '  Modern  Painters,'  in  the 
teeth  of  vulgar  opinion,  so  now  Carlyle  spoke  for  '  Fors.' 

•6,  Cheyne  Row, 
«  Chelsea, 

'April  ZOth,  1871. 
*  Dear  Ruskhj, 

'  This  "  Fors  Clavigera,"  Letter  5th,  which  I  have  just 
finished  reading,  is  incomparable ;  a  quasi-sacred  consolation 
to  me,  which  almost  brings  tears  into  my  eyes  !  Every  word 
of  it  is  as  if  spoken,  not  out  of  my  poor  heart  only,  but  out 
of  the  eternal  skies ;  words  winged  with  Empyrean  wisdom, 
piercing  as  lightning, — and  which  I  really  do  not  remember 
to  have  heard  the  like  of.  Continue,  while  you  have  such 
utterances  in  you,  to  give  them  voice.  They  will  find  and 
force  entrance  into  human  hearts,  whatever  the  "angle  of 
incidence  "  may  be  ;  that  is  to  say,  whether,  for  the  degraded 
and  inhuman  Blockheadism  we,  so-called  "  men,"  have  mostly 
now  become,  you  come  in  upon  them  at  the  broadside,  at  the 
top,  or  even  at  the  bottom.     Euge,  Euge  ! — 

'  Yours  ever, 

'T.  Carlit.e.'' 

Others,  like  Sir  Arthur  Helps,  joined  in  this  encouragement. 
But  the  old  struggle  with  the  newspapers  began  over  again. 

They  united  in  considering  the  whole  business  insane, 
though  they  did  not  doubt  his  sincerity  when  Mr.  Ruskin 
put  down  his  own  money,  the  tenth  of  what  he  had,  as  he 


•FORS'  BEGUN  289 

rwommpntlcd  his  ndhorcnts  to  do.  Bv  the  end  of  the  ycnr 
he  liiul  set  aside  i^*7000  toward  e.stahlisliiiig  a  cuiii|)aiiv  to  be 
called  of  'St.  Geoii;c,'  as  ie|)re>eiitiiij:j  at  ome  En<j;iand  and 
niiriiuiture.  Sir  Tlionias  Dvke  Aeiuntl  and  the  Rifilit  lion. 
W.  C'owper-Teniple  (afterwards  Lord  .Mount  'lVni])le),  thoiij;h 
not  |)letl{;int;  tlieniselves  to  approval  of  the  sclieiiie,  undertook 
the  triisteesliip  of  the  fund.  A  few  frienils  subscribed;  in 
June  187~,  after  a  year  and  a  half  of  '  Foi-s,'  the  fii-st 
stranf^er  sent  in  his  contribution,  and  at  the  end  of  thix-e 
yeai-s  IM'66  l!3.«.  were  collected,  to  add  to  his  1*7000,  and  a 
few  acres  of  laml  were  fjiven.  A  start  was  made,  of  wliich  we 
shall  have  to  trace  tiie  fortunes  in  the  sequel. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Uuskin  practised  what  he  preached.  He 
did  not  jneach  renunciation  ;  he  was  not  a  Pessimist  any 
more  than  an  Ojjtiniist.  Sometimes  he  felt  he  was  not  doinjj 
enouj;h ;  he  knew  very  well  that  others  thought  so.  I 
remember  his  saying,  in  his  rooms  at  Oxford  in  one  of  those 
years  :  '  Here  I  am,  trying  to  reform  the  world,  and  I  suppose 
I  ought  to  begin  with  myself.  I  am  trying  to  do  St.  Uene- 
dicfs  work,  and  I  ought  to  be  a  saint.  And  yet  I  am  living 
between  a  Turkey  carpet  and  a  Titian,  and  drinking  as  much 
tea' — taking  his  second  cuj) — 'as  I  can  sziin-T 

That  wjxs  the  way  he  put  it  to  an  undergraduate  ;  to  a  lady 
friend  he  wrote  later  on,  '  I'm  reading  history  of  early  saints, 
too,  for  my  Amiens  book,  and  feel  that  I  ought  to  be 
scratched,  or  starved,  or  boiled,  or  something  un|)lcasant; 
an«l  I  don't  know  if  I'm  a  saint  or  a  sinner  in  the  least,  in 
nietliii'val  language.  IIow  did  the  saints  feel  themselves,  I 
wonder,  about  their  saintship  !' 

It  is  very  easy  to  preach,  and  not  so  difficult  to  practise 
the  great  llenuaciation.  IJut  what  then .'  It  is  very  hard 
to  see  clearly,  and  infinitely  hard  to  follow,  the  stniighl  pith 
of  even-handed  justice,  and  the  fullilment  of  duty  to  all  the 
com|)lex  claims  of  Ufe  in  the  midst  of  a  crooked  and  penerse 
generation. 

If  he  had  forsaken  all  and  followed  the  vocation  of 
St.  Francis, — he  has  discussed  the  qucstiou  candidly  in  '  Fors  * 
19 


290        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

for  May  1874, — would  not  his  work  have  been  more  effectual, 
his  example  more  inspiring?  Conceivably  :  but  that  was  not 
his  mission.  His  gospel  was  not  one  of  asceticism ;  it  called 
upon  no  one  for  any  soi-t  of  suicide,  or  even  martyrdom.  He 
required  of  his  followers  that  they  should  live  their  lives  to 
the  full  in  'Admiration,  Hope  and  Love':  and  not  that  they 
should  sacrifice  themselves  in  fasting  and  wearing  of  camels'- 
hair  coats.  He  wished  them  to  work,  to  be  honest,  and  just, 
in  all  things  immediately  attainable.  He  asked  the  tenth  of 
their  living — not  the  widow's  two  mites ;  and  it  was  deeply 
painful  to  him  to  find,  sometimes,  that  they  had  so  intei-preted 
his  teaching  :  as  when  he  wrote,  later,  to  Miss  Beever  : — '  One 
of  my  poor  "Companions  of  St.  George"  who  has  sent  me, 
not  a  widow's  but  a  parlour-maid's  (an  old  schoolmistress) 
"  all  her  living,"  and  whom  I  found  last  night,  dying,  slowly 
and  quietly,  in  a  damp  room,  just  the  size  of  your  study 
(which  her  landlord  won't  mend  the  roof  of),  by  the  light  of 
a  single  tallow  candle, — dying,  I  say,  sloid?/  of  consumption, 
not  yet  near  the  end,  but  contemplating  it  with  sorrow, 
mixed  partly  with  fear  lest  she  should  not  have  done  all  she 
could  for  her  children !  The  sight  of  this  and  my  own 
shameful  comforts,  three  wax  candles  and  blazing  fire  and 
dry  roof,  and  Susie  and  Joanie  for  friends !  Oh  me,  Susie, 
what  is  to  become  of  me  in  the  next  world,  who  have  in  this 
life  all  my  good  things !' 

— All .''  No,  not  nearly  all.  But  even  of  what  he  had  no 
man  was  ever  readier  to  spend  and  sacrifice. 

After  carrying  on  '  Fors '  for  some  time  his  attention  was 
drawn  by  ^Ir.  W.  C.  Sillar  to  the  question  of  '  Usury.'  At 
first  he  had  seen  no  crying  sin  in  Interest.  He  had  held  that 
the  'rights  of  capital'  were  visionary,  and  that  the  tools 
should  belong  to  him  that  can  handle  them,  in  a  perfect  state 
of  society ;  but  he  thought  that  the  existing  system  was  no 
worse  in  this  respect  than  in  others,  and  his  expectation  of 
reform  in  the  j)lan  of  investment  went  hand-in-hand  with  his 
hope  of  a  good  time  coming  in  everything  else.  So  he  quietly 
accepted  his  rents,  as  he  accepted  his  Profc£soi-ship,  for  example. 


TORS'  BEGUN  291 

tliinkinp  it  his  business  to  be  a  jjood  landlord  nnd  spend  liis 
nionev  giiicrously,  just  as  he  thouf-ht  it  his  business  to  retain 
the  existing  Soutli  Kensington  drawing  sehool,  and  tlie  Oxford 
system  of  education — not  at  all  his  ideal — and  to  make  the 
best  use  of  them. 

A  lady  who  was  his  pupil  in  drawing,  and  a  believer  in  his 
idails  of  ])Iiilanthropy,  Miss  Oetavia  Hill,  undertook  to  help 
him  in  l!S()i  in  etiorts  to  reclaim  part — though  a  very  small 
part— of  the  lower-class  dwellings  of  London.  Haifa  dozen 
houses  in  Marylebone  left  by  Mr.  Huskin's  father,  to  which 
he  ailded  three  more  in  Paratlise  Place,  as  it  was  euphemi.stic- 
ally  named,  were  the  subjects  of  their  exjieriment.  They 
were  ridiculed  at  fii-st;  but  by  the  noblest  endeavour  they 
succeeded,  and  set  an  exam|)le  which  has  been  followeil  in 
many  of  our  towns  with  great  results.  They  showed  what  a 
wise  and  kinil  landlord  could  do  by  caring  for  tenants,  by 
giving  them  habitable  dwellings,  recreation  ground  and 
fixity  of  tenure,  and  requiring  in  return  a  reasonable  and 
moderate  rent.  Mr.  Iluskin  got  five  j)er  cent,  for  his  capital, 
instead  of  twelve  or  more,  which  such  property  generally 
returns,  or  at  that  time  returned. 

But  when  he  began  to  write  against  rent  and  interest  there 
were  plenty  of  critics  ready  to  cite  this  and  other  investments 
as  a  danuiing  inconsistency.  He  was  not  the  man  to  offer 
explanations  at  anv  time.  It  was  no  di'fence  to  .sjiv  that  he 
took  less  and  did  more  than  other  landlorils.  .And  so  he  was 
glad  to  part  with  the  whole  to  Miss  Hill  ;  nor  did  he  care  to 
s|)enil  u|)on  himself  the  ^'!3500,  which  I  believe  wius  the  price. 
It  went  right  and  left  in  gifts :  till  one  day  he  cheerfully  re- 
marked, 

•It's  a'  (fane  nwa' 
Like  8uaw  aff  a  w.V.' 

'  Is  there  really  nothing  to  show  for  it  ?'  he  was  asked. 
*  Nothing,'  he  said,  'except  this  new  silk  innbrella.' 

The  tea-sh()|)  wa.s  one  of  Mr.   lluskin's  '  ex|>eriment,s  '  in 
connection   with  '  Fors.'     He  himself  disliked   the  word,  be- 
iau.se  it  savoured  of  failure.     But  words  are  what  we  make  of 
l»-2 


292        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

them ;  and  in  this  case  he  made  experiment  mean  success. 
He  had  talked  so  much  of  the  possibility  of  carrying  on 
honest  and  honourable  retail  trade,  that  he  felt  bound  to 
exemplify  his  principles.  He  took  a  house,  No.  19,  Padding- 
ton  Street,  with  a  corner  shop,  near  his  Marylebone  property, 
and  set  himself  up  in  business  as  a  teaman.  Mr.  Arthur 
Severn  painted  the  f'gn,  in  neat  blue  letters;  the  window 
was  decked  with  fine  old  china,  bought  from  a  Cavaliere  near 
Siena,  whose  unique  collection  had  been  introduced  to  notice 
by  Professor  Norton  ;  and  ]\Iiss  Han-let  Tovey,  an  old  servant 
of  Denmark  Hill,  was  established  there,  like  Miss  Mattie  in 
'  Cranford,'  or  rather  like  one  of  the  salaried  oflicials  of  '  Time 
and  Tide,'  to  dispense  the  unadulterated  leaf  to  all  comers. 
No  advertisements,  no  self-recommendation,  no  catchpenny 
tricks  of  trade  were  allowed ;  and  yet  the  business  went  on, 
and,  I  am  assured,  prospered  with  legitimate  profits. 

At  first,  various  kinds  of  the  best  tea  only  were  sold ;  but 
it  seemed  to  the  tenant  of  the  shop  that  coffee  and  sugar 
ought  to  be  included  in  the  list.  This  was  not  at  all  in 
Mr.  Ruskin's  programme,  and  there  were  great  debates  at 
home  about  it.  At  last  he  gave  way,  on  the  understanding 
that  the  shop  was  to  be  res])onsible  for  the  proper  roasting  of 
the  coffee  according  to  the  best  recipe. 

After  some  time  Miss  Tovey  died.  And  when,  in  the 
autunm  of  1876,  Miss  Octavia  Hill  proposed  to  take  the 
house  and  business  over  and  work  it  with  the  rest  of  the 
jMarylebone  property,  the  offer  was  thankfully  accepted. 

Another  of  his  ])rincijiles  was  cleanliness ;  '  the  speedy 
abolition  of  all  abolishable  filth  is  the  first  process  of  educa- 
tion.' Indeeil,  it  was  one  of  his  chief  differences  with  an  ill 
world  that  fouled  its  own  nest — with  sewage  in  its  rivers  and 
smoke  in  its  lungs.  There  was  '  nothing  so  small  and  mean,' 
as  his  George  Herbert  had  said,  that  it  did  not  come  into  his 
province.  If  the  projjhet  had  bidden  us  do  some  great  thing ! 
But  his  teaching  was  to  attack  the  enemy  in  detail,  and  cairy 
311  a  guerilla  warfare  with  all  the  powers  of  darkness. 

It  was  a  very  unimportant  outpost  of  the  Devil,  it  might 


•FORS'  BEGUN  293 

appear,  that  he  attacked  when  he  undertook  to  keep  certain 
streets,  not  erossin^  only,  cleaner  tlian  the  pulilic  seemed  to 
aire  for,  between  tlie  Ihitish  Mnseiiin  and  St.  (Jiles'.  Hut 
that  hd)our  came  to  liis  hand,  and  he  did  it  witli  his  nii<;ht. 
He  took  the  broom  himself,  for  a  start,  put  on  his  f^ardencr, 
Downes,  as  foreman  of  the  job,  and  enga<;ed  a  small  staff  of 
helpei-s.  The  work  be<j;an,  as  he  promised,  in  a  Innnorous 
letter  to  the  Pull  Mull  Gazette  upon  New  Year's  Day,  187^, 
ami  he  kept  his  three  sweepers  at  work  for  eijjht  houi-s  daily 
'to  show  a  bit  of  our  London  streets  kept  iu>  clean  as  the 
deck  of  a  ship  of  the  line.' 

There  were  some  dilliculties,  too.  One  of  the  staff  was  an 
extremely  handsome  and  lively  shoeblack,  picked  up  in  St. 
Giles'.  It  turned  out  that  he  was  not  unknown  in  the  world : 
he  had  sat  to  artist.s — to  Mr.  Edward  Clifford,  to  Mr.  Severn  ; 
anil  went  by  the  name  of  'Cheekv.'  Every  now  and  then 
Mr.  Ruskin  'and  party 'drove  round  to  inspect  the  works. 
Downes  could  not  be  everywhere  at  once :  and  Cheeky  used 
to  be  caught  at  pitch  and  toss  or  marbles  in  unswept  Museum 
Street.  Mr.  Ruskin  rarely,  if  ever,  dismissed  a  servant ; 
but  street  sweeping  was  not  good  enough  for  Cheeky,  and  so 
he  enlisted.  The  army  was  not  good  enough,  and  .so  he 
deserted ;  and  was  last  seen  disappearing  into  the  darkness, 
after  calling  a  cab  for  his  old  frienils  one  night  at  the  Albert 
Hall. 

The  Oxford  diggings  and  St.  George's  farms  aflerwanls 
claimed  Downes'  ser\ices.  Enough  however  had  bcuu  doue 
to  set  the  example,  and  to  show  that 

'  Wlio  sweeps  a — .itrcet— as  for  Tliy  lawt, 
Makes  tiiat,  aud  the  action,  tic:e.' 

One  more  escapade  of  this  most  unpractical  man,  as  they 
called  him.  Since  his  fortune  was  rapidly  melting  away, 
he  had  to  look  to  his  works  as  an  ultimate  resource:  they 
eventually  became  his  only  means  of  livelihood.  One  might 
suppose  that  he  would  be  anxious  to  i)ut  his  publishing  busi- 
ness on  the  most  secure  and  satiafuctory  footing;  to  facilitate 


294        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

sale,  and  to  ensure  profit.  But  he  had  views.  He  objected 
to  advertising  ;  though  he  thought  that  in  his  St.  George's 
Scheme  he  would  have  a  yearly  Book  Gazette  drawn  up  by 
responsible  authorities,  indicating  the  best  works.  He  dis- 
trusted the  system  of  unaclcnoxdedged  profits  and  percentages, 
though  he  fully  agreed  that  the  retailer  should  be  paid  for  his 
work,  and  wished,  in  an  ideal  state,  to  see  the  shopkeeper  a 
salaried  official.  He  disliked  the  bad  print  and  paper  of  the 
cheap  literature  of  that  day,  and  knew  that  people  valued 
more  highly  what  they  did  not  get  so  easily.  He  had 
changed  his  mind  with  regard  to  one  or  two  things — religion 
and  glaciers  chiefly — about  which  he  had  written  at  length  in 
earlier  works. 

So  he  withdrew  his  most  popular  books  — '  Modem 
Painters'  and  the  rest — from  cii'culation,  though  he  was  per- 
suaded by  the  publisher  to  reprint  'Modern  Painters'  and 
'  Stones  of  Venice  '  once  moi-e — '  positively  for  the  last  time,' 
as  they  said  the  plates  would  give  no  more  good  impressions. 
He  had  his  later  writings  printed  in  a  rather  expensive  style  ; 
at  first  by  Smith  &  Elder,  after  two  years  by  Messrs.  Watson 
&  Hazell  (now  Hazell,  Watson  &  Viney,  Ltd.),  and  the 
method  of  publication  is  illustrated  in  the  history  of '  Sesame 
and  Lilies,'  the  first  volume  of  these  '  collected  works.'  It 
was  issued  by  Smith  &  Elder,  May,  1871,  at  7*.,  to  the  trade 
only,  leaving  the  retailer  to  fix  the  price  to  the  public.  In 
September,  1872,  the  work  was  also  supplied  by  ^Ir.  George 
Allen,  and  the  price  raised  to  9*.  6d.  (cafrriage  paid)  to  trade 
and  public  alike,  with  the  idea  that  an  extra  shilling,  or 
nearly  ten  per  cent.,  might  be  added  by  the  bookseller  for  his 
trouble  in  ordering  the  work.  If  he  did  not  add  the  com- 
mission, that  was  his  own  affair;  though  with  postage  of 
order  and  payment,  when  only  one  or  two  copies  at  a  time 
were  asked  for,  this  did  not  leave  much  margin.  So  it  was 
doubled,  by  the  simple  expedient  of  doubling  the  price  ! — or, 
to  be  accurate,  raising  it  to  18,?.  (carriage  paiil)  for  20,9.  over 
the  counter.  It  was  freely  prophesied  Ijy  business  men  that 
thi'.  would  not  do :  however,  at  the  end  of  fifteen  years  the 


•FORS' BEGUN  295 

ti.rfh  ed'it'ion  of  this  work  in  this  form  was  bcinf;  sold,  in  s])ttc 
of  the  fait  thiit,  five  yeiii-s  before,  a  siimller  reprint  of  tiic 
same  hook  had  been  broiiji;ht  out  at  5*.,  and  was  then  in  its 
fourth  eihtion  of  3,000  copies  each. 

Compared  with  the  enormous  sale  of  sensational  novels  and 
school  books,  this  is  no  {jrcat  matter;  but  for  a  didactic 
work,  olfereil  to  the  public  without  advertisoiiiciit,  ami  in  the 
face  of  the  almost  univci-sal  opi)ositioii  of  the  hook-selling 
trade,  it  means  not  only  that,  as  an  author,  Mr.  lluskin  iiiul 
made  a  secine  reputation,  but  also  that  he  deserved  the  curious 
tribute  once  paid  him  by  the  journal  of  a  big  modern  shop 
(Compton  House,  Liverpool)  as  a  'great  tradesman.' 

His  high  prices  were  a  stumbling  block  to  most  of  his 
readers;  and  he  finally  withdrew  his  objection  to  cheap- 
ness, on  finding  that  it  need  not  mean  had  printing,  and 
that  there  are  many  people  who,  though  thcv  cannot  allbrd 
the  old-fiushioned  scholar's  librarv,  have  the  ol(l-fii.>.hionetl 
scholars  res|)ect  for  books.  Formerly,  when  clerks  from 
Ghusgow  or  working  men  from  Manchester  wrote  to  say  that 
they  really  wanted  to  read  him,  but  really  could  not  aflbrd, 
he  replieii  with  a  giowl  that  if  a  child  in  the  gutter  wanted  a 
picture  book  he  would  sav,  '  Come  out  of  that,  fii"st !'  Which, 
though  a  hard  saying,  truly  re|)re.sciited  his  attitude.  He 
distnistetl  people  who  lamented  their  dismal  lot,  and  showed 
no  courage  to  mend  it :  who  protested  a  thirst  for  Nature 
ami  Art,  and  yet  took  no  steps  to  enjoy  what  they  could  get, 
or  to  get  what  they  could  enjoy, — 'So  here  wc  sit  sullen  in 
the  black  slime" — or  ci  attristinm  nella  hclh-ttti  ru-rrra.  If  they 
bought  anvthing  of  his,  there  was  '  Fors,'  in  which  he  was 
giving  his  best,  at  the  price,  as  he  said,  of  two  puts  of  beer  a 
nionlhl 


CHAPTER  ra.  . 

OXFOED  TEACHING.    (1872-1875.) 

•How  should  he  care  what  men  may  say, 
Who  see  no  heaven  day  by  day, 
And  dream  not  of  his  hidden  way  ? 

•  For  though  betwixt  dull  earth  and  him 
Such  clouds  and  mists  deceptive  swim, 
That  to  his  eyes  life's  ways  look  dim  ; 

'Yet  when  on  high  he  lifts  his  gaze 
He  sees  the  stars'  untroubled  ways 
And  the  divine  of  endless  days.' 
To  '  the  Ethereal  Ruskin'  (Spectator,  June  5th,  1875). 

EARLY  in  1872,  after  bringing  out  'Munera  Pulveris,' 
the  essays  he  had  written  ten  years  before  for  Fraser  on 
economy ;  after  getting  those  street-sweepers  to  work 
near  the  British  Museum,  where  he  was  making  studies  of 
animals  and  Greek  sculpture  ;  and  after  once  more  addressing 
the  Woolwich  cadets,  this  time*  on  the  Bird  of  Calm  (the 
mythology  of  the  Halcyon),  Professor  Ruskin  went  to  Oxford 
to  give  a  course  of  ten  lectures^  on  the  Relation  of  Natural 
Science  to  Art,  afterwards  published  under  the  title  of  *  The 
Eagle's  Nest.'  He  wrote  to  Professor  Norton,  '  I  am,  as 
usual,  unusually  busy.  When  I  get  fairly  into  my  lecture  work 
at  Oxford  I  always  find  the  lectui-e  would  come  better  some 
other  way,  just  before  it  is  given,  and  so  work  from  hand  to 

*  January  13,  1872. 

t  Feb.  8,  10,  15,  17,  22,  24,  29  ;  March  2,  7,  and  d. 


OXFORD  TEACHING  297 

month.  I  am  always  unhappy,  and  see  no  pood  in  sayinj»  so. 
Hut  I  am  SL'ttlini;  to  my  work  here — n-ckli'-sly — to  do  my 
hc'st  with  it  :  feelin!:;  quite  sure  tliat  it  is  talkini;  at  hazard, 
for  what  chance  good  niav  come.  Hut  I  attend  regularly  'in 
the  schools  as  mere  drawing-master,  and  the  men  begin  to 
come  in  one  by  one,  about  fifteen  or  twenty  already  ;  several 
worth  having  as  pupils  in  any  way,  being  of  temper  to  make 
gooil  growth  of.' 

Whv  was  he  always  unhappy  .'' — It  was  not  th:it  Mr.  W. 
B.  Scott  criticised  '  Mr.  Uuskin's  influence' in  tliat  March;  or 
that  bv  Easter  he  had  to  say  farewell  to  his  old  home  on 
Denmark  Hill,  and  settle  'for  good'  at  Brantwood.  Nor 
that  he  couKl  go  abroad  again  for  a  long  summer  in  Italy 
with  Mr.  and  ^Ii-s.  Severn  and  the  Ililliards  and  Mr.  Albert 
Goodwin  :  though  it  was  a  busy  time  they  spent.  They 
startetl  about  the  middle  of  April,  and  on  the  journey  out  he 
wrote,  bcsiile  his  '  Fors,'  which  always  went  on,  a  preface  to 
the  Uev.  U.  St.  John  Tyrwhitt's  '  Christian  Art  and  Symbo- 
lism.' He  ilrew  the  Apse  at  Pi.sa,  half-amused  and  half- 
worried  bv  the  little  ragamuflln  who  varieil  the  tetlium  of 
watching  his  work  by  doing  horizontal-bar  tricks  on  the  rail- 
ings of  the  Cathedral  gi-ecn.  Then  to  Lucca,  where,  to  show 
his  friends  something  of  Italian  landscape,  he  took  them  for 
raml)les  through  the  olive  farms  and  chestnut  woods,  among 
which  Miss  Hiliiard  lost  her  jewelled  cross.  Greatly  to  Mr. 
Buskin's  delight,  as  a  firm  believer  in  Italian  jKasant-virtue, 
it  was  found  and  rctume<l  without  hint  of  reward. 

At  Home  they  visitetl  old  Mr.  Severn,  anil  then  went 
homeward  by  way  of  \erona,  where  Mr.  Buskin  wrote  an 
account  of  tiie  Cavalli  monuments  for  the  Arundel  Society, 
and  \'enii-e,  where  he  rcturncHl  to  the  study  of  Carpaccio. 
.\t  Rome  he  ha<l  been  once  more  to  the  Si.sline,  and  found 
that  on  earlier  visits  the  ceiling  and  the  Ijist  Judgment  had 
taken  his  attention  too  exclusively.  Now  that  he  could  look 
Bwav  from  Michelangelo  he  become  conscious  of  the  claims  of 
Botticelli's  frescoes,  which  repixsent,  in  the  Florentine  school, 
lomcwhat  the  same  kind  of  interest  tiiat  he  had  found  in 


298        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Carpaccio.  He  became  enamoured  of  Botticelli's  Zipporab, 
and  resolved  to  study  the  master  more  closely.  On  reaching 
home  he  had  to  prepare  'The  Eagle's  Nest'  for  publication  ; 
in  the  preface  he  gave  special  importance  to  Botticelli,  and 
amplified  it  in  lectures  on  early  engraving,  that  autumn  ;*  in 
which  he  quoted  with  appreciation  the  jKissage  on  the  Venus 
Anadyomene  from  Mr.  Pater's  '  Studies  in  the  Renaissance ' 
just  published. 

This  sudden  enthusiasm  about  an  unkno\vn  painter  amused 
the  Oxford  public:  and  it  became  a  standing  .)oi<e  among 
the  profane  to  ask  who  was  Ruskin's  last  great  man.  It 
was  in  answer  to  that,  and  in  expression  of  a  truer  under- 
standing than  most  Oxford  pupils  attained,  that  Bourdillon 
of  Worcester  wrote  on  '  the  Ethereal  Ruskin,' — that  was 
Carlyle's  name  for  himf : — 

*  To  us  this  star  or  that  seems  bright, 
And  oft  some  headlong  meteor's  Hight 
Holds  for  awhile  our  raptured  sight. 

'  But  he  discerns  each  noble  star  ; 
The  least  is  ouly  the  most  far, 
Whose  worlds,  may  be,  the  mightiest  are.* 

The  critical  value  of  this  course  however,  to  a  student  of  art- 
history,  is  impaired  by  his  using  as  illustrations  of  Botticelli, 
and  of  the  manner  of  engraving  which  he  took  for  standard, 
certain  plates  which  were  erroneously  attributed,  and  impres- 
sions of  them  which  perhaps  misrepresent  their  original  con- 
dition, as  intended  by  the  artist.  '  It  is  strange,'  he  wrote  in 
despair  to  Professor  Norton,  '  that  I  hardly  ever  get  anything 
stated  without  some  grave  mistake,  however  true  in  my  main 
discourse.'  But  in  this  case  a  fate  stronger  than  he  had  taken 
him  unawares.    The  circumstances  do  not  extenuate  the  error 

•  'Ariadne  Florentina,'  delivered  on  Nov.  2,  9,  IG,  2.'^,  30  and  Dec. 
7,  and  repeated  on  the  following  Thursdays.  Mr.  Ruskin's  first  mention 
of  Botticelli  was  in  the  course  on  Landscape,  Lent  Term,  1871. 

t  In  a  copy  of  '  The  Early  Kings  of  Norway '  ia  this  inscription  : 
•  To  my  dear  and  ethereal  Ruskin,  whom  God  preserve.  Chelsea,  4  May 
1875.'     The  signature  alone  is  in  Carlyle's  hand. 


OXFORD  TEACHING  299 

f  the  I'rofossor,  but  tliey  explain  the  difficulties  under  which 
is  work  wiLs  done. 

For  on  his  return  to  England  this  August,  1872,  an  event 
ad  hajJjK'ned,  too  important  in  its  consequences  to  be  left 
nnotiicd,  though  too  {tainful  for  more  than  a  {jassing 
llu-ion. 

Many  of  his  readers  know,  and  many  more  must  suspect, 
hilt  there  was  some  reason  for  his  being  '  always  unhajtpv,' — 
hat  something  at  this  jieriod  came  to  a  crisis,  that  it  turned 
ut  unfortunately,  and  wreckc<l,  'on  a  low  lee  shore,'  a  career 
rhich  though  stonny  had  been  pros|)eroas,  and  was  now 
pproaching  the  desireil  haven.  The  cloud  that  rested  on  his 
wn  life  was,  without  iloubt,  the  result  of  a  strange  and  wholly 
mespected  tragedy  in  another's. 

It  was  an  ofK.ii  secret — his  attachment  to  a  lady,  who  had 
leen  his  pupil,  and  was  now  generally  understood  to  be  his 
'amic.  She  was  far  younger  than  he;  but  at  fifty-three  he 
ras  not  an  old  man  ;  and  the  friends  who  fully  knew  and 
inderstood  the  afl'air  favoured  his  intentions,  and  joined  in 
he  ho|)e,  and  in  auguries  for  the  happiness  which  he  had 
leen  so  long  waiting  for,  and  so  richlv  deserved.  But  now 
liat  it  came  to  the  jxiint  the  latly  finally  decide<l  that  it  was 
mpossible.  He  was  not  at  one  with  her  in  religious  matters. 
le  could  .speak  lightly  of  her  Evangelical  creed — it  seemed 
le  scoflcti  in  'Fors'at  her  faith.  She  could  not  be  unequally 
okeil  with  an  unbeliever.  To  her,  the  alternative  was  plain  ; 
he  choic-e  was  terrible  :  3et,  having  once  seen  her  pith,  she 
umed  resolutely  away. 

Three  years  after,  as  she  lay  dying,  he  begged  to  see  her 
»nce  more.  She  sent  to  ask  whether  he  could  yet  say  that  he 
ovpd  CiotI  better  than  he  loveil  her ;  and  when  he  said  '  No,' 
»er  dot)r  was  closed  upon  him  for  ever. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  bitterest  despair  he  sought  refuge,  a>  be 
lad  done  Ixforc,  in  his  work.  He  accepted  the  lesson,  though 
le,  too,  could  not  recant ;  still  he  tried  to  correct  his  apparent 
evitv  in  the  renewetl  seriousness  and  more  earnest  tone  of 
Fors,'  speaking  more  plainly  and  more  simply,  but  without 


800        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

concession.  He  wrote  on  the  next  Christmas  Eve  to  an 
Aberdeen  Bible-class  teacher: — 

'  If  you  care  to  give  your  class  a  word  directly  from  me,  say 
to  them  that  they  will  find  it  well,  throughout  life,  never  to 
trouble  themselves  about  what  they  ought  not  to  do,  but 
about  what  they  ought  to  do.  The  condenmation  given  from 
the  Judgment  Throne — most  solemnly  described — is  all  for 
the  undones  and  not  for  the  denes.  People  are  perpetually 
afraid  of  doing  wrong  ;  but  unless  they  are  doing  its  reverse 
energetically,  they  do  it  all  day  long,  and  the  degree  does  not 
matter. 

'  Make  your  young  hearers  resolve  to  be  honest  in  their 
work  in  this  life.  Heaven  will  take  care  of  them  for  the 
other.' 

That  was  all  he  could  say:  he  did  not  Jinoza  there  was 
another  life :  he  hoped  there  was :  and  yet,  if  he  were  not  a 
saint  or  a  Christian,  was  there  any  man  in  the  world  who  was 
nearer  to  the  kingdom  of  heaven  than  this  stubborn  heretic  ? 

His  heretical  attitude  was  singular.  He  was  just  as  far 
removed  from  adojiting  the  easy  antagonism  of  science  to 
religion  as  from  siding  with  religion  against  science.  In  a 
paper  singularly  interesting — and  in  his  biography  important 
— on  the  '  Nature  and  Authority  of  Miracle,''  read  to  the 
Metaphysical  Society  (Feb.  11th,  1873),  he  tried  to  clear  up 
his  position. 

'  The  phenomena  of  the  universe,'  he  said,  '  with  which  we 
are  acquainted,  are  assumed  to  be,  under  general  conditions, 
constant,  but  to  be  maintained  in  that  constancy  by  a  supreme 
personal  mind;  and  it  is  farther  supposed  that,  under  par- 
ticular conditions,  this  ruling  Person  interrupts  the  constancy 
of  these  phenomena,  in  order  to  establish  a  particular  relation 
with  inferior  creatures.'  He  thought  that  the  religious  mind 
was  sometimes  hasty  in  claiming  that  miracles  were  worked 
for  private  advantage — but  he  believed  that  miracles  have 
happened  anil  do  happen.  'A  human  act  may  be  super- 
doggish,  and  a  divine  act  super-human,  yet  all  three  acts 
absolutely  natural.  .  .  .     We  can  only  look  for  an  imperfect 


OXFORD  TEACHING  801 

ind  intcmiptcil,  but  iruxy  surely  insist  on  an  occasional, 
iiniiit(.'shitioa  of  miraculous  crcnientirtls  l)v  every  niini>ter  of 
vligiou.  .  .  .  "  These  sijjns  slmll  follow  them  tiiat  believe" 
ire  woixls  which  admit  neither  of  qualilicntion  nor  misuntler- 
tandinp;  and  it  is  far  less  nrropant  in  any  man  to  look  for 
uch  Divine  attestation  of  his  authority  as  a  teacher,  than  to 
•l.uin,  without  it,  any  authority  to  teach.  And  assuredly  it 
s  no  proof  of  anv  unfitness  or  unwisdom  in  such  expectations 
hat,  for  the  last  thousjinil  yeai-s,  miraculous  powers  seem  to 
lave  been  withdrawn  from,  or  at  least,  indemonstrably  pos- 
lessetl  by,  a  church  which,  havinjj  been  again  and  again  w  amed 
jy  its  Master  that  lliches  were  deadly  to  Religion,  and  Love 
essential  to  it,  has  nevertheless  made  wealth  the  reward  of 
;he()logical  learning,  and  controversy  its  occupation.' 

AVith  that  year  ex|>ired  the  term  for  which  he  had  been 
;lected  to  the  Slade  l'rofes,soi-ship,  and  in  January  1873  he 
vas  re-eleeted.  In  his  fii-st  three  yeai-s  he  had  given  five 
»urses  of  lectures  designed  to  introduce  an  encydopaHlic 
■cview  and  reconstruction  of  all  he  liail  to  say  upon  art. 
Beginning  with  general  principles,  he  hatl  procee<lcd  to  their 
ijiplication  in  history,  by  tracing  certain  phases  of  Geek 
iculpture,  and  bv  contra-sting  the  Greek  and  the  Gothic 
ipirit  as  shown  in  the  treatment  of  lnndsca|)e,  from  which  he 
»ent  on  to  the  study  of  early  engraving.  The  a|)plicnti()n  of 
lis  principles  to  theory  was  made  in  the  course  on  Science 
uui  Art  ('The  Kagle's  Nest').  Now,  on  his  re-election,  he 
proccedcti  to  tiike  up  these  two  sides  of  his  subject,  and  to 
illustrate  his  view  of  the  right  way  to  apply  science  to  art,  by 
1  course  on  IJirds,  in  Nature,  Art  and  Mythology,  and  next 
I'cnr  bv  a  study  of  Alpine  forms.  The  historical  side  was 
continued  with  lectun-s  on  Niccola  Pisano  and  early  Tu-can 
Kulpture,  and  in  1.S74  with  an  important,  though  unpub- 
lished, course  on  Florentine  Art. 

It  is  to  this  cycle  of  lectures  that  we  must  look  for  that 
mnturi'd  Ru>kinian  theory  of  art  which  his  early  works  do 
Hot  rta<  h  ;  and  which  his  writings  between  l."SGO  and  l.SlO 
do  not  touch,     'lliough  the  Oxiord  lectures  are  oidy  a  frag- 


302        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

ment  of  what  he  ought  to  have  done,  they  should  be  suflRcient 
to  a  careful  reader;  though  their  expression  is  sometimes 
obscured  by  diffuse  treatment,  they  contain  the  root  of  the 
matter,  thought  out  for  fifteen  years  since  the  close  of  the 
more  brilliant,  but  less  profound,  period  of  ']Modem  Painters  \ 

The  coui-se  on  Birds*  was  given  in  the  drawing  school  at 
the  Univei-sity  Galleries,  llie  room  was  not  large  enough 
for  the  numbers  that  crowded  to  hear  Professor  Ruskin,  and 
each  of  these  lectures,  like  the  previous  and  the  follow  ing 
courses,  had  to  be  repeated  to  a  second  audience.  Great 
pains  had  been  given  to  their  preparation — much  greater  than 
the  easy  utterance  and  free  treatment  of  his  theme  led  his 
hearers  to  believe.  For  these  lectures  and  their  sequel,  pub- 
lished as  'Love's  Meinie,"  he  collected  an  enormous  number  of 
skins — to  compare  the  plumage  and  wings  of  different  species  ; 
for  his  work  was  with  the  outside  aspect  and  structure  of 
birds,  not  with  their  anatomy.  He  had  models  made,  as  i 
large  as  swords,  of  the  different  quill-feathers,  to  experiment 
on  their  action  and  resistance  to  the  air.  He  got  a  valuable ' 
series  of  drawings  by  H.  S.  Marks,  R.A.,  and  made  many 
careful  and  beautiful  studies  himself  of  feathers  and  of  birds 
at  the  Zoological  Gardens,  and  the  British  Museum ;  and 
after  all,  he  had  to  conclude  his  work  saying,  '  It  has  been 
thi-oughout  my  trust  that  if  death  should  write  on  tliese, 
"  What  this  man  began  to  build,  he  was  not  able  to  finish," 
God  may  also  wxite  on  them,  not  in  {mger,  but  in  aid,  '•  A 
stronger  than  he  cometh.'" ' 

Two  of  the  lectures  on  birds  were  repeated  at  Etonf  before 
the  bovs'  Literary  and  Scientific  Society  and  their  friends 
and  between  this  and  1880  'Sir.  Ruskin  often  went  to  address 
the  same  audience,  with  the  same  interest  in  young  peoplej 
that  had  taken  him  in  earlier  years  to  Woolwich. 

After  a  long  vacation  at  Brantwood,  the  first  spent  the 
he  went  up  to  give  his  course  on  Early  Tuscan  Art  ('  V 

♦  lifarch  15,  M.iy  2  and  9  ;  repeated  March  19,  May  5  and  12,  1873.1 
t  "May  10  and  17. 


OXFORD  TEACHING  803 

d'Arno').*  The  lectures  were  printed  separately  nnd  sold  at 
tiie  lom-lusion,  anil  the  first  miiuhers  wei-e  sent  to  C'lirlyie, 
whose  unahated  interest  in  his  Iriend's  work  was  shown  in  his 
letter  of  Oct.  31st : — '  After  several  weeks  of  eager  expec- 
tation I  received,  morning  before  yesterday,  the  sequel  to 
your  kind  little  note,  in  the  shape  of  four  bright  (piailo 
lectures  (forwarded  by  an  Aylesbury  printer)  on  the  His- 
torical and  Artistic  Development  of  \'al  cPArno.  Many 
thanks  to  you  for  so  pleasant  and  instructive  a  gift.  The 
woik  is  full  of  beautiful  and  delicate  perceptions,  new  ideas, 
botli  new  and  true,  which  throw  a  brilliant  illumination  over 
that  important  piece  of  History,  and  awake  fresh  curiosities 
and  s|)eculations  on  that  and  on  other  much  wider  subjects. 
It  is  all  written  with  the  old  nobleness  and  lire,  in  which  no 
other  living  voice,  to  my  knowledge,  eijuals  youre.  Perge, 
jJtTi^e ; — anil,  as  the  Irish  sjw,  "  more  power  to  your  elbow  I" 
I  have  vet  read  this  "  \  al  d'Arno  "  only  once.  Frouile  snatched 
it  away  from  me  yesterday ;  and  it  has  then  to  go  to  my 
brother  at  Dumfries.     After  that  I  shall  have  it  back.'  .  .  . 

During  that  sunnner  and  autumn  Mr.  Uuskin  sullered  from 
nights  of  sleeplessness  or  unnaturally  vivid  dreams,  and  days 
of  unrest  and  feverish  energy,  alternating  with  intense  fatigue. 
The  eighteen  lectures  in  less  than  six  weeks,  a  '  cond)ination 
of  ])rophecy  and  play-acting,'  as  Carlyle  had  called  it  in  his 
own  case,  and  the  unfortunate  discussion  with  an  old-fashioned 
economist  who  undertook  to  demolish  Ruskinism  without 
undei-standing  it,  ailded  to  the  causes  of  w  hich  we  are  already 
aware,  brought  him  to  New  Year  IHT-t,  in  'failing  strength, 
care,  and  hope.'  He  sought  (juiet  at  the  se««ide,  but  found 
modern  hotel-life  intolerable ;  he  went  back  to  town  and 
tried  the  |)anfomimes  for  ilistraction, — sjxw  Kate  N'aughan  in 
C'inikrella,  and  \'iolet  Cameron  in  Jack  in  the  IJox,  over  and 
over  again,  and  found  himself  'now  hopelessly  a  man  of  the 
world  1 — of  that  woeful  outside  one,  I  mean.  It  is  now  Sun- 
day ;  half-past  eleven  in  tlie  moniing.      Everybody  else  is 

•  On  Mondaya  and  Tharedays,  Oct  21,  23,  27,  30,  Nov.  3,  6,  10,  13, 
17,  20  ;  repeated  on  the  Weduesdayi  and  Fridays  fuUowiug. 


804        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

p:one  to  clmrch — and  I  am  left  alone  with  the  cat,  in  the 
world  of  sin.'  Thinking  himself  better,  he  went  to  Oxford, 
and  announced  a  course  on  Alpine  form  ;  but  after  a  week 
was  obliged  to  retreat  and  go  home  to  Coniston,  still  ho])ing 
to  return  and  give  his  lectui-es.  But  it  was  no  use.  Tlie 
gloom  without  deepened  the  gloom  within  ;  and  he  took  the 
wisest  course  in  trying  Italy,  alone  this  time  with  his  old 
servant  Crawley. 

The  greater  part  of  1874  was  spent  abroad — first  travelling 
through  Savoy  and  by  the  Riviera  to  Assisi,  where  he  fell 
dangerously  ill  again,  as  at  Matlock  in  1871.  He  dreamt  in 
his  illness  that  they  had  made  him  a  brother  of  the  thiid 
degree  of  the  order  of  St.  Francis — a  fancy  that  took  strong 
hold  of  his  mind  ;  and  he  wrote  his  '  Fors'  for  May  under  great 
temptation  to  follow  St.  Francis,  not  in  adopting  his  creed, 
but  in  imitating  his  renunciation.  But  saving  commonscnse 
reminded  him  of  his  duties  to  his  pupils  at  Oxford,  and  he 
contented  himself  with  playing  at  monks  with  the  last  sur- 
vivors of  the  great  Franciscan  convent.  He  wrote  to  Miss 
S.  Beever : — 

'  The  Sacristan  gives  me  my  coffee  for  lunch  in  his  own 
little  cell,  looking  out  on  the  olive  woods  ;  then  he  tells  me 
stories  of  conversions  and  miracles,  and  then  perhaps  we  go 
into  the  sacristy  and  have  a  reverent  little  jwke-out  of  relics. 
Fancy  a  great  carved  cujiboard  in  a  vaulted  chamber  full  of 
most  precious  things  (the  box  which  the  Holy  \'irgin's  veil 
used  to  be  kept  in,  to  begin  with),  and  leave  to  rummage  in 
it  at  will !  Things  that  are  only  shown  twice  in  the  year  or 
so,  with  fumigation  !  all  the  congregation  on  their  knees — ■ 
and  the  sacristan  and  I  having  a  great  heap  of  them  on  the 
table  at  once,  like  a  dinner  service !  I  really  looked  with 
great  respect  on  St.  Francis's  old  camel-hair  dress.' 

Thence  he  went  to  visit  iNIre.  and  JNIiss  Yule  at  Palermo, 
deeply  interested  in  Scylla  and  Charybdis,  Etna  and  the 
metopes  of  Selinus.  His  interest  in  Greek  art  had  been 
ehown,  not  only  in  a  com-se  of  lectures,  but  in  active  support 
to  archaeological   exploi-ations.       He   said   once.    'I   believe 


OXFORD  TEACHING  805 

fcrnr'ily  in  cli<rQ:in'i:s,  of  all  sorts.'  Meetinjj  General  L.  P. 
di  (Vsiiolii  and  liearinn;  of  the  wealth  of  ancient  remains  in 
C\i)riis  then  newly  discovered,  Mr.  Hii>kin  placed  I'lOOO  at 
his  dispo.sal.  In  spite  of  the  conliseation  of  half  tiie  tix'a-sure- 
trove  l)y  the  local  Government,  (Jeneral  ili  C'esnola  wius  ahle, 
in  A|)ril  ISTo,  to  ainiouncc  that  he  had  shipped  a  carfjo  of 
Rnli(liiities,  including  many  va.ses,  terra-cottas,  and  fragments 
of  sculptui-c,  which  proveil  most  valuahle  a.s  illustrations  of 
the  growth  of  Greek  art  from  the  earliest  Egypto-Assyrian 
form  into  the  later  periods. 

The  lanilsc.ipe  of  Theocritus  and  the  remains  of  ancient 
glories  roused  him  to  energetic  sketching — a  sign  of  returning 
strength,  which  continued  when  he  reacheil  Home,  and  enabled 
him  to  make  a  very  fine  coj)y  of  Botticelli's  Zipporah,  and 
other  iletails  of  the  Sistine  frescoes. 

The  account  of  this  journey  can  be  gathered  in  more  detail 
than  we  ciui  spare  it  here,  in  '  Ilortus  Inclusus'  and  '  Foi-s.' 
Jjite  in  October  he  reached  England,  just  able  to  give  the 
promi.seil  I-ectures  on  Alpine  forms,* — I  remember  his  curious 
attempt  to  illustrate  the  neve-ma.s.ses  by  pouring  flour  on  a 
model ; — and  a  second  course  on  the  Aesthetic  and  Mathe- 
niatic  schools  of  Florence  ;t  and  a  lecture  on  Botticelli  at 
Eton,  of  which  the  Literary  and  Scientific  Society's  minute- 
book  contains  the  following  report : — 

'On  Saturday,  Dec.  12th  (1874),  Professor  Ruskin  lectured 
before  a  crowded,  influential  and  excited  audience,  which 
com|)risctl  our  noble  Society  and  a  huiulred  and  thirty  gentle- 
men an»i  ladies,  who  eagerly  accepted  an  invitation  to  hear 
I'rofes-sor  Ruskin  "  talk  "  to  us  on  Botticelli. 

'  It  is  utterly  impo.ssible  for  the  unfortunate  secretary  of 
the  Society  to  transmit  to  writing  even  an  abstract  cf  this 
iddrcss ;  and  it  is  some  apoloj, v  for  him  when  beauty  of 
expression,  sweetness  of  voice,  tnd  elegance  in  imagery  defy 
llie  utmost  ellorts  of  the  jicn.' 

Just   before   leaving   for  Italy  he  had   been  told  that  the 
•  Oct  27,  .30  :   Nov.  3  an.l  6,  1874. 
t  Nov.  10.  13,  17,  20,  24,  27  ;  Dec.  1  »nd  4,  1874. 

ao 


806        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Royal  Institute  of  British  Architects  intended  to  present  him 
with  their  Gold  jVIedal  in  acknowledgment  of  his  services  to 
the  cause  of  architecture ;  and  during  his  journey  official 
announcement  of  the  award  reached  him.  He  dictated  from 
Assisi,  where  he  was  at  the  moment  (June  12,  1874)  seriously 
ill,  a  letter  to  Sir  Gilbert  Scott,  explaining  why  he  declined 
the  honoui-  intended  him.  He  said  in  effect  that  if  it  had 
been  offered  at  a  time  when  he  had  been  writing  on  architec- 
ture it  would  have  been  welcome ;  but  it  was  not  so  now  that 
he  felt  all  his  efforts  to  have  been  in  vain  and  the  profession 
as  a  body  engaged  in  work — such  as  the  '  restoration  '  of 
ancient  buildings — with  which  he  had  no  sympathy.  '  That 
I  have  myself  failed,  I  have,  as  you  tell  me,  again  and  again 
confessed.  That  I  have  made  the  most  fatal  mistakes,  I  have 
also  confessed.  That  I  have  received  no  help,  but  met  the 
most  scornful  opposition  in  every  eff"ort  I  have  ever  made 
which  came  into  collision  with  the  pecuniary  interests  of 
modem  builders,  may,  perhaps  in  a  degree  more  than  I  know, 
have  occasioned  my  failure.'  It  had  been  represented  to  him 
that  his  refusal  to  accept  a  Royal  ]\Iedal  would  be  a  reflection 
upon  the  Royal  donor.  To  which  he  replied,  '  Having 
entirely  loyal  feelings  towards  the  Queen,  I  will  trust  to  her 
Majesty's  true  interpretation  of  my  conduct ;  but  if  formal 
justification  of  it  be  necessary  for  the  public,  would  plead  that 
if  a  Peerage  or  Knighthood  may  without  disloyalty  be  refused, 
surely  much  more  the  minor  grace  proceeding  from  the 
monarch  may  be  without  imjjropriety  declined  by  any  of  her 
Majesty's  subjects  who  wish  to  serve  her  without  reward, 
under  the  exigency  of  peculiar  circumstances.' 

It  was  only  the  term  before  that  Prince  Leopold  had  been 
at  Oxford,  a  constant  attendant  on  ]Mr.  Ruskin's  lectures,  and 
a  visitor  to  his  drawing  school.  The  gentle  Prince,  with  his 
instinct  for  philanthropy,  was  not  to  be  deten-ed  by  the 
utterances  of  '  Fors '  from  resjiecting  the  genius  of  the  Pro- 
fessor ;  and  the  Professor,  with  his  old-world,  cavalier  loyalty, 
readily  returned  the  esteem  and  affection  of  his  new  pupil. 
A  sincere  friendship  was  formed,   lasting  mitil  the  Prince's 


OXFORD  l-EACIIING  807 

dentil,  which  nobody  Ininentcd  more  bitterly  than  the  man 
who  hud  i'ounil  so  imuh  in  him  and  hoped  so  much  from 
Lim. 

At  the  end  of  the  next  summer  term  (June  1875)  Princess 
Alice  and  her  husband,  with  Prince  Arthur  and  Prince  Leopold, 
were  at  Oxfortl.  Mr.  Uuskin  had  just  made  arranjicments  com- 
pleting his  gilts  to  the  Univei-sity  galleries  and  schools.  The 
lloyal  party  sliowcd  great  interest  in  the  Professor  and  his 
work.  The  Princess,  the  Grand  Uuke  of  IIcssc,  and  Princ-e 
Leopold  acted  as  witnes.ses  to  the  deed  of  gift ;  and  Prince 
Arthur  and  Prince  Leopold  accepted  the  trusteeship. 

^Vith  all  the  Slade  Professor's  generosity,  the  Uuskin  draw- 
ing school,  fouiidfd  in  these  fine  galleries  to  which  he  had  so 
largely  contributed,  in  a  palatial  hail  handsomely  furnished, 
and  hung  with  Tintoret  and  Luini,  IJurnc-Joncs  and  Uos.setti, 
and  other  rare  masters,  ancient  and  modern  ;  with  the  most 
interesting  examples  to  copy — at  the  most  convenient  of 
desks,  we  may  adil — yet  in  spite  of  it  all,  the  drawing  school 
was  not  a  popular  institution.  \Vlien  the  Professor  was  per- 
sonally teaching,  he  got  some  fifteen  or  twenty — if  not  to 
attend,  at  any  rate  to  join.  But  whenever  the  chief  attrac- 
tion could  not  be  counted  on,  the  attendance  sjink  to  an 
average  of  two  or  three.  Tlie  cause  was  simple.  An  under- 
graduate is  su|)posed  to  spend  his  morning  in  lectures,  his 
afternoon  in  taking  exercise,  and  his  evening  in  college. 
There  is  simply  no  time  in  his  scheme  for  going  to  a  drawing 
•chool.  If  it  were  recognised  as  part  of  the  curriculum,  if  it 
counted  in  any  way  along  with  other  studies,  or  contributed 
to  a  'school'  akin  to  that  of  music,  practical  art  might 
become  teachable  at  Oxford;  and  Professor  Ruskin's  gifts  anil 
endowments — to  say  nothing  of  his  ho|K-s  and  plans — would 
not  be  wholly  in  vain. 

It  could  not  be  hiil,  also,  that  Profi-ssor  Ruskin's  heart  wna 
elsewhere,  though  he  put  so  nnich  work — and  money — into 
the  foundation  of  a  drawing  school  :  as  it  were,  to  excuse  his 
waning  inteust  in  art-teaching,  and  growing  tlisbelief  in  the 
value  of  lectures.  He  found,  as  he  said  to  a  Glasgow  man 
20—2 


308        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

who  invited  him  to  hold  forth  there,  that  everyhody  wanted 
to  hear — nobody  to  read — nobody  to  think  ;  'To  be  excited 
for  an  hour,  and,  if  possible,  amused  ;  to  get  the  knowledge 
it  has  cost  a  man  half  his  life  to  gather,  first  sweetened  up  to 
make  it  palatable,  and  then  kneaded  into  the  smallest  possible 
pills — and  to  swallow  it  honioeopathically  and  be  wise.  ...  It 
is  not  to  be  done.  A  living  comment  quietly  given  to  a  class 
on  a  book  they  are  earnestly  reading — this  kind  of  lecture  is 
eternally  necessary  and  wholesome.' 

He  really  wanted  to  be  the  guide,  philosopher  and  friend 
of  some  of  those  '  worth  having  in  any  way — of  temper  to 
make  good  growth  of:'  and  to  attract— not  the  would-be 
amateurs  and  dilettanti,  or  the  academically  and  profession- 
ally successful  men — but  those  who  were  going  to  be  the  real 
thinkers  and  workers. 

As  he  could  not  make  the  undergraduates  draw,  he  made 
them  dig.  He  had  noticed  a  very  bad  bit  of  road  on  the 
Hinksey  side,  and  heard  that  it  was  nobody's  business  to 
mend  it:  meanwhile  the  farmers'  carts  and  casual  pedestrians 
were  bemired.  He  sent  for  his  gardener  Downes,  who  had 
been  foreman  of  the  street-sweepers  ;  laid  in  a  stock  of  picks 
and  shovels;  took  lessons  in  stone -breaking  himself,  and 
called  on  his  friends  to  spend  their  recreation  times  in  doing 
something  useful.  In  spite  of  a  good  deal  of  ridicule,  some- 
thing useful  was  actuallv  done.  jNIore  picks  were  broken  and 
more  time  was  lost  than  a  regular  business-contractor  would 
have  liked  :  but  the  men  had  their  lesson  and  the  cottagers 
their  road.  It  was  maliciously  said  that  the  '  Hinksey 
diggings '  were  abandoned  because  the  rustics  jeered  at  the 
diggers.  The  work  was  stojiped  when  the  work  was  finished  ; 
it  was  no  part  of  the  scheme  to  take  all  the  bad  roads  of  the 
county  off"  the  Surveyor's  hands.  Of  jeers,  none  were  oflered 
that  I  remember :  I  recollect  an  oration  of  encouragement 
and  thanks  from  one  of  the  farmers — who  explained  the 
reason  why  the  road  was  neglected,  and  described  the  rights 
accruing  to  us  by  law  or  by  custom,  for  keeping  it  up.  I 
believe  we  were  entitled  to  gi-aze  a  cow  on  a  common — or 


OXFORD  TEACHING  809 

lomotliin^  of  the  sort :  at  the  time,  however,  we  diil  not 
value  the  |)iivile;;e  as  we  oii^lit,  and  I  am  afraid  it  wan  We 
who  jeeifd  at  the  rustic:  the  Professor  being  absent— be  it 
umlei-stooil. 

Miinv  of  the  disciples  met  at  the  weekly  o|)en  breakfasts  at 
the  Professor's  rooms  in  Corpus  ;  and  he  was  glad  of  a  talk  to 
them  on  other  things  besiile  drawing  ami  iliggiiig.  Some 
were  attracted  eiiielly  l)y  the  celebrity  of  the  man,  or  by  tlie 
curi()>ity  of  his  humorous  discourse;  but  tliere  were  a  few 
who  partly  graspeii  one  sitle  or  other  of  his  mission  and 
character.  The  most  brilliant  undergraduate  of  the  time, 
leen  at  this  bivakfast  table,  but  not  one  of  the  diggers,  was 
W.  II.  Mullock,  afterwarils  widely  known  as  the  author  of  '  Is 
Life  Worth  Living?'  He  was  the  only  man.  Professor 
Ruskin  siiid,  who  really  understood  him — referring  to 'The 
Sew  Uepublic'  IJut  wljiie  Mallock  saw  the  reactionary  and 
pessimistic  sitle  of  his  Oxford  teacher,  tliere  was  a  progressist 
ind  o|)tiniistic  side  wliiclj  does  not  appear  in  his  '  Mr. 
Herbert.'  That  was  discovered  by  another  man  whose 
aireiT,  short  as  it  was,  proved  even  more  inHiiential.  Arnold 
rovidiee  was  one  of  the  Professor's  warmest  admirei-s  and 
iblest  pupils  :  and  in  liis  philanlhn)|)ic  work  the  teaching  of 
'Unto  tins  I>ast "  and  'Pol's'  was  illustrated — not  exclusively 
— l)ut  truly.  '  No  true  disciple  of  mine  will  ever  l)e  a 
Uuskinian'  (to  quote  'St.  Mark's  Uest ';)  '  he  will  follow,  not 
me,  but  the  ijistincta  of  his  own  soul,  anil  the  guidance  of 
its  Creator.' 

Like  all  encrgi'tic  men,  Mr.  Uuskin  wjis  fond  of  setting 
jtlier  people  to  work.  One  of  his  plans  was  to  form  a  little 
libnu-y  of  standard  books  (' Bibliotheca  Pasturum ')  suitable 
For  the  kind  of  people  who,  he  hoi)ed,  would  join  or  work 
jiidcr  his  St.  George's  Ctunpany.  The  lirst  b<M>k  he  chose 
was  the  '  Economist '  of  Xenoj)h<)n,  which  he  asketl  two  of 
Ais  young  friends  to  translate.  To  them  and  their  work  he 
iroulil  give  his  afternoons  in  the  rooms  at  C<iq)us,  with 
nirious  |)atience  in  the  midst  of  prc-occupying  labour  anil 
leverest  trial;  for  just  then  be  was  lecturing  at  the  London 


BIO        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Institution  on  the  Alps* — reading  a  paper  to  the  Meta- 
physical Societyf — writing  the  Academy  Notes  .of  1875,  and 
'  Proserpina,"  etc. — as  well  as  his  regular  work  at  '  Fors,'  and 
the  St.  George's  Company  was  then  taking  definite  form  ; — 
and  all  the  while  the  lady  of  his  love  was  dying  under  the 
most  tragic  circumstances,  and  he  forbidden  to  approach  her. 

At  the  end  of  May  she  died.  On  the  1st  of  June  the 
Royal  party  honoured  the  Slade  Professor  with  their  visit — 
little  knowing  how  valueless  to  him  such  honours  had  become. 
He  went  northj  and  met  his  translators  at  Brantwood  to 
finish  the  Xenophon, — and  to  help  dig  his  harbour  and  cut 
coppice  in  his  wood.  He  prepared  a  preface ;  but  the  next 
term  was  one  of  greater  pressure,  with  the  twelve  lectures  on 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  to  deliver.     He  wTote,  after  Christmas  : — 

'  Now  that  I  have  got  my  head  fairly  into  this  Xenophon 
business,  it  has  expanded  into  a  new  light  altogether ;  and  I 
think  it  would  be  absurd  in  me  to  slur  over  the  life  in  one 
paragraph.  A  hundred  things  have  come  into  my  head  as  I 
arrange  the  dates,  and  I  think  I  can  make  a  much  better 
thing  of  it — with  a  couple  of  days'  work.  IVIy  head  would 
not  work  in  town— merely  turned  from  side  to  side — never 
nodded  (except  sleepily).  I  send  you  the  proofs  just  to  show 
you  I'm  at  work.  I'm  going  to  translate  all  the  story  of 
Delphic  answer  before  Anabasis:  and  his  speech  after  the 
sleepless  night.' 

Delphic  answers — for  he  was  just  then  brought  into  con- 
tact with  '  spiritualism ';  and  sleepless  nights — for  the  excite- 
ment of  overwork  was  telling  upon  him — were  becoming  too 
frequent  in  his  own  experience ;  and  yet  he  could  stop  to 
explain  himself,  with  forbearance,  in  answer  to  remarks  on 
the  aforesaid  proofs : — '  I  had  no  notion  you  felt  that  Raw  so 

*  'The  Simple  Dynamic  Couditioua  of  Glacial  Action  among  the 
Alps,"  March  11,  1875. 

t  'Social  Policy  based  on  Natural  Selection,'  May  11. 

J  On  a  posting  tour  through  Yorkshire.  He  made  three  such  toura 
in  1875^80uthward  in  January,  northward  in  June  and  July,  and 
louthward  in  September  :  and  another  northward  in  April  and  May, 
IS76. 


OXFORD  TEACHING  811 

ierion>lv,  or  would  have  written  ut  once.  I  .should  never  call 
inspired  prophecy  "  Ciassiciil,"  —  nor  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount — nor  tlie  like  of  it.  All  inspired  writinjj  stands  on  a 
nobler  authority.  "Hail  thou  that  art  hij^hly  favoured" 
doi's  not  contain  constant  truth,  for  all, — but  instant  truth 
— for  Mary.  If  we  criticise  it  aa  /«/(,;•)<(/.£;•(■,  or  "  Scripture" 
writini; — we  niu.st  do  so  in  its  Gntk  or  Rnman  words.  But 
"  quanto  quiscjue  sihi  j)Iura  ncgavcrit  Ah  Dis  |)lura  feret "  is 
cla.s.sic,  Kternal  truth,  in  the  best  possible  worils.  Whereas, 
"  if  thine  eye  offenil  thee,  pluck  it  out "  is  not  constant  truth 
unless  receivetl  in  a  certain  temper  and  admitting  certain 
conditions.  It  is  then  much  more  than  constant  truth. 
Scripture  and  Writing — Picture  and  Painting  are  always  used 
by  me  as  svnonvinous  terms.'' 

The  lectures  on  Reynolds  went  off  with  (chit,*  in  spite  of 
less  pains  bestowed  on  their  preparation.  The  brilliancy  of 
rhetoric,  the  magic  of  oratorv,  the  a.stonishing  reaches  of 
thought,  were  utterly  unlike  the  teaching  of  the  .scribes  or 
Pharisees  of  modern  times.  It  was  no  imitable  trick  of  in- 
tellectual power  which  transnnited  the  .scribbled  jottings  of 
his  M.>.  for  this  series  into  the  magnificent  flow  ofj-olling 
paragraph  and  rounded  argument,  that  thrilled  a  captious 
audience  with  unwonted  emotion, and  almost  pei-suaded  many 
a  cari'less  or  cynic  heai-er  to  abjui-e  his  worship  of  muscle 
or  of  brain  for  the  nobler  gospel  of  '  the  Ethereal  Iluskin." 
In  spite  of  strangeness,  anil  a  sense  of  antagonism  to  his 
Burrouiulings,  which  grew  from  day  to  day,  he  did  useful 
work  which  none  other  coulil  do  in  the  University,  and 
wielded  an  enormous  influence  for  good.  That  this  was  then 
acknowledged  was  jjroved  by  his  re-election,  early  in  1876  : 
but  his  thinl  terni  of  three  years  was  a  time  of  weakened 
health.  The  cause  of  it,  the  greatest  sorrow  of  his  life,  we 
have  just  revealed.  At  the  time,  the  public  put  it  down  to 
di.sn|)pointcd  egotism,  or  whatever  they  fancied.  But  re- 
peated absence  from  his  jiost  and  inability  to  fulfil  his  duties 
made  it  obviously  his  wi.scst  courrte,  at  the  end  of  that  third 
term,  to  resign  the  Sla  le  Profes-sorship. 

•  Not.  2,  4,  6,  9,  1 1,  \\  IC,  18,  20,  23,  25,  and  27  ;  1875. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ST,  GEORGE  AND  ST.  MARK.     (1875-1877.) 

'A  curious  volume,  patch'd  and  torn, 
That  all  day  long,  from  earliest  morn, 
Had  taken  captive  her  two  e^ea 
Among  its  golden  broideries  ; 
Perplexed  her  with  a  thousand  things,— 
The  stars  of  Heaven,  and  angels'  wings, 
Moses'  breastplate,  and  the  seven 
Candlesticks  John  saw  in  Heaveu, 
The  winged  lion  of  St.  Mark, 
And  the  Covenautal  Aik.' 

Keats. 

IN  the  book  his  Bertha  of  Canterbury  was  reading  at  twi- 
light on  the  Eve  of  St.  Mark,  Keats  might  have  been 
describing  'Fors.'  Among  its  pages,  fascinating  with 
their  golden  broideries  of  romance  and  wit,  perplexing  with 
mystic  vials  of  wrath  as  well  as  all  the  Seven  Lamps  and 
Shekinah  of  old  and  new  Covenants  conuiiingled,  there  was 
gradually  unfolded  the  plan  of  '  St.  George's  Work.' 

The  scheme  was  not  easy  to  apprehend;  it  was  essentially 
different  from  anything  then  known,  though  superficially  like 
several  bankrupt  Utoj)ias.  Mr.  Uu.skiii  did  not  want  to 
found  a  phalanstery,  or  to  imitate  Robert  Owen  or  the 
Shakers.     That  would  have  been  practicable — and  useless. 

He  wanteil  nuich  more.  He  aimed  at  the  gradual  intro- 
duction of  higher  aims  into  ordinary  life :  at  giving  true 
refinement  to  tlie  lower  classes,  true  simpllcitv  to  the  upper. 
He  proposed  that  idle  hands  should  reclaim  waste  lands; 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  ST.  MARK  813 

Ihat  hp.iltliv  work  niul  country  homes  .sliould  be  oflTcrvd  to 
townsfolk  wlio  woiilil  'come  out  of  the  jjiiltcr.'  lie  luskeil 
Inntlowuci-s  niid  cmployefs  to  fuiiiisli  opportunities  for  .suclj 
reform.s ; — wliich  would  involve  no  ihihorute  or^ani/jition  nor 
uiuliLstic  rules; — simply  the  one  thing  needful,  the  ivfusiil  of 
['oinmereiali.sm. 

As  hefore,  he  scorned  the  iilea  tliat  rc.il  fjood  could  be 
Jone  bv  political  agitation.  Any  government  woulil  work, 
lie  sjiiil,  if  it  were  an  ellieient  government.  No  government 
was  ellieient  unless  it  saw  that  every  one  had  the  necessaries 
of  life,  for  Iwily  and  soul ;  and  that  every  one  eametl  them 
by  some  work  or  other.  Capital — that  is,  the  means  and 
material  of  labour,  shoulil  therefore  be  in  the  hands  of  the 
Govennnent,  not  in  the  hands  of  individuals  :  this  refonn 
would  result  e;Lsily  antl  nceessjirily  from  the  forbidding  of 
loans  on  interest.  Personal  jirojicrty  would  still  be  in  private 
hands ;  but  as  it  could  not  be  invested  and  turned  into 
ca|)ital,  it  would  necessjirily  be  restricted  to  its  actual  use, 
uul  great  accumulation  would  be  valueless. 

This  is,  of  coui-se,  a  very  sketchy  statement  of  the  ground- 
»ork  of'  Foi-s,'  but  to  most  readers  nowadays  as  compithen- 
jible  as,  at  the  time  of  its  publication,  it  wjis  incomprehensible. 
For  when,  long  after  'Fors'  had  been  written,  Mr.  Ruskin 
found  other  writers  atlvocating  the  same  principles  and 
calling  themselves  Socialists,  he  said  that  he  too  was  a 
Socialist. 

But  the  Socialists  of  various  .sects  have  complicated,  and 
sometimes  confused,  their  simple  fundamental  princi|)Ies  with 
various  ways  and  means;  to  which  Mr.  Uu^kin  could  not 
agree.  lie  hail  his  own  ways  and  means.  lie  luul  his 
private  ideals  of  life,  which  he  expounded,  along  with  his 
main  diK-trine.  He  thought,  justifiably,  that  theory  was 
useless  without  pnicticnl  example ;  and  so  he  founded  St. 
G«.orgt"s  Com|)any  (in  1877  called  St  George's  Guilil)  as  hij 
illustnition. 

The  Guild  grew  out  of  his  adl,  in  1871,  for  adherents: 
tad  by  1875  began  to  take  diiiuite  form.     Its  objects  were 


314        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

to  set  the  example  of  a  common  capital  as  opposed  to  a 
National  debt,  and  of  co-operative  labour  as  opposed  to  com- 
petitive struggle  for  life.  Each  member  was  required  to  do 
some  work  for  his  living — without  too  strict  limits  as  to  the 
kind — and  to  practise  certain  precepts  of  religion  and  morality, 
broad  enough  for  general  acceptance.  He  was  also  required 
to  obey  the  authority  of  the  Guild,  and  to  contribute  a  tithe 
of  his  income  to  a  conmion  fund,  for  various  objects.  These 
objects  were — first :  to  buy  land  for  the  agricultural  members 
to  cultivate,  paying  their  rent,  not  to  the  other  members,  but 
to  the  com};)any ;  not  refusing  machinery,  but  preferring 
manual  labour.  Next,  to  buy  mills  and  factories,  to  be  like- 
wise owned  by  the  Guild  and  worked  by  members — using 
water  power  in  preference  to  steam  (steam  at  first  not  for- 
bidden)— and  making  the  lives  of  the  people  employed  as  well 
spent  as  might  be,  with  a  fair  wage,  healthy  work,  and  so 
forth.  The  loss  on  starting  was  to  be  made  up  from  the 
Guild  store,  but  it  was  anticipated  that  the  honesty  of  the 
goods  turned  out  would  ultimately  make  such  enterprises 
pay,  even  in  a  commercial  world.  Then,  for  the  people 
employed  and  their  families,  there  would  be  places  of  recrea- 
tion and  instruction,  supplied  by  the  Guild,  and  intended  to 
give  the  agricultural  labourer  or  mill-hand,  trained  from 
infancy  in  Guild  schools,  some  insight  into  Literature, 
Science  and  Art — and  tastes  which  his  easy  position  would 
leave  him  free  to  cultivate. 

So  far  the  plan  was  simple.  It  was  not  a  colony— hut 
merely  the  working  of  existing  industries  in  a  certain  way. 
Anticipating  further  development  of  the  scheme,  IMr.  Raskin 
looked  forward  to  a  guild  coinage,  as  pretty  as  the  Florentines 
had ;  a  costume  as  becoming  as  the  Swiss  :  and  other  Platonic- 
ally  devised  details,  which  were  not  the  essentials  of  the  pro- 
posal, and  never  came  into  operation.  But  some  of  his  plans 
were  actually  realised. 

The  chief  objects  of  'St.  G«orge'  come  under  three  heads, 
as  we  have  just  noticed  :  agricultural,  industrial,  and  educa- 
tional.    The  actual  schools  would  not  be  needed  until  the 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  ST.  MARK  815 

'nrms  and  mills  hatl  bwn  so  fur  cstiihlishcil  as  to  scciiru  a 
}eriiiutiuiit  atti'iKliince.  But  meanwhile  provision  wa.s  buin^ 
naiic  for  them,  both  in  iitenitui-e  ant!  in  art.  Tlic  '  Uiblio- 
heca  P»istoiun>'  was  to  be  a  coinpiihinsive  little  library — 
ar  les.s  than  the  100  books  of  the  Fall  Mall  6«-<«t— and'yet 
)rinp;ing  before  the  St.  Georj^e's  workman  standard  and  serious 
irritinj;  of  all  times.  It  wtis  to  include,  in  separate  volumes, 
he  Books  of  Moses  and  the  Psalms  of  David  and  the  Uevela- 
ion  ofSt.  John.  Of  Greek,  the  Xcnophon,  and  Ilcsioil,  wliieli 
At.  Uuskin  undertook  to  translate  into  prose.  Of  Ijxtin,  the 
irst  two  Georgics  and  sixth  jEncid  of  Virgil,  in  Gawain 
)ouglas' translation.  Dante;  Chaucer,  excluding  the  '  C'an- 
erbury  Tales" — but  including  the  'Romance  of  the  Rose"; 
iotlhelfs  '  Ulric  the  Farmer,'  from  the  French  vei-sion  which 
■Ir.  Ruskin  had  lovetl  ever  since  his  father  used  to  reatl  it 
lim  on  their  first  tours  in  Switzerland  ;  and  an  early  English 
istorv  by  an  Oxford  friend.  Later  were  published  Sir  I'hilip 
idney's  psalter,  and  Mr.  Ruskin's  own  biography  of  Sir  Iler- 
ert  Edwai-des,  unikr  the  title  of  '  A  Knight's  Faith.' 

These  books  were  for  the  home  library  ;  reference  works 
ere  bought  to  be  de|)osited  in  central  libraries,  along  with 
bjects  of  art  and  science.  It  wa-s  not  intcndetl  to  keep  the 
iuiUl  property  centralised;  but  rather  to  spread  it, ils  its  other 
ork  wa-s  spreati,  broad-cast.  A  number  of  books  and  other 
bjects  were  bought  with  the  Guild  money,  and  lent  or  given 
)  various  schools  and  colleges  and  institutions  where  work 
\in  to  the  objects  of  tlic  Guild  wa.s  being  clone.  But  for  the 
nie  Mr.  Ruskin  fixed  upon  Sheflield  as  the  place  of  his  first 
uild  Mu.scuni, — being  the  home  of  the  typical  English  in- 
Jstry — central  to  all  parts  of  England,  near  beautiful  hill- 
(untry,  and  yet  not  far  from  a  number  of  manufacturing 
iwns  in  which,  if  St.  George's  work  went  on,  suppoiterti  and 
iruits  might  be  found. 

The  people  of  Sheflield  were  already,  in  1S75,  building  a 
u.vuiu  of  their  own,  and  naturally  thought  that  the  two 
ight   be  conveniently  woikid    together.      But   that   was  not 

all  what  Mr.  Ruskin  wished.     Not  only  was  his  niuseuiu 


316        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

to  be  primarily  the  storehouse  of  the  Guild,  rather  than  one 
among  many  means  of  pojiular  education ;  but  the  objects 
which  he  intended  to  place  there  were  not  such  as  the  public 
expected  to  see.  He  had  no  interest  in  a  vast  accumulation 
of  articles  of  all  kinds.  He  wanted  to  provide  for  his  friends' 
conniion  treasury  a  few  definitely  valuable  and  interesting 
examples, — interesting  to  the  sort  of  peo]ile  that  he  hoped 
would  join  the  Guild  or  be  bred  up  in  it ;  and  valuable 
according  to  his  own  standard  and  experience.  The  complete 
sets  of  stuffed  animals  or  fossils,  for  example,  that  are  found 
in  any  provincial  museum  ;  the  ordinary  books  and  pictures 
and  casts  of  the  town  library  and  gallery :  all  that  can  be 
readily  seen  elsewhere — not  to  say  all  that  is  of  doubtful 
worth, — was  to  be  excluded.  Fine  specimens  of  natural  pro- 
ducts, such  as  precious  stones  and  the  more  beautiful 
minerals ;  casts  from  the  best  and  least-known  sculpture ; 
expensive  reference  books;  a  few  genuine  pictures  by  old 
masters ;  plenty  of  good  copies,  such  as  could  now  be  pro- 
duced by  artists  whom  he  had  trained,  and  records  of  archi- 
tecture which  was  rapidly  passing  away : — every  separate 
object  separately  noteworthy — this  was  the  kind  of  material 
which  would  interest  the  mind  and  stimulate  the  imagination, 
more  than  a  wearisome  multitude  of  mediocrities.  j 

In  September  1875,  while  travelling  by  short  stages  from  • 
Brantwood  to  London,  Mr.  Ruskin  stayed  a  couple  of  days  > 
at  Sheffield  to  inspect  a  cottage  at  Walkley,  in  the  outskirts  ' 
of  the  town,   and  to  make  arrangements  for  founding  the 
museum — humbly  to  begin  with,  but  hoping  for  sjieedy  in- 
crease.    He  engaged  as  curator,  at  a  salary  of  £iO  a  \ear 
and   free  lodging  on  the   premises,  his   former  pupil   at  the 
Working  Men's  College,   Henry  Swan,  who  had  done  occa- 
sional  work  for  him  in  diawing  and  engraving.     Swan  was  a 
Quaker,  and  a  remarkable  man  in  his  way ;  enthusiastic  in 
his  new  vocation,  and  interested  in  the  social  questions  which 
were  being  discussed  in  'Fors.'     Under  his  care  the  Museum 
remained  at  Walkley,  accumulating  material  in  the  tiny  and 
hardly  accessible  cottage, — being  so  to  speak  in  embryo,  until 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  ST.  MARK  817 

the  wav  shoulil  be  clear  for  its  removal  or  enlargement,  which 
took  jiiacc  in  ISOO. 

\Vlien  Mr.  Uiiskin  came  hack  on  his  jiosting  tour  of  April 
187(5,  he  stayed  ajjain  at  Shctllelcl,  to  meet  a  few  friciids  of 
Swan's, — Secularists,  Unitarians,  and  Quakers,  who  professed 
Connnunism.  They  had  an  interview  (reported  in  the  Shef- 
field DiiU;/  Tthi^rtiph,  April  2Sth,  l.STG),  which  brought  out 
rat  liir  curiously  the  points  of  dillerence  between  their  opinions 
and  his.  They  refused  to  join  the  Guild  because  they  would 
not  promise  obedience,  and  help  in  its  objects.  Mr.  Ruskin, 
however,  was  willing  to  advance  theirs.  A  few  weeks  after- 
wards he  inviteil  them  to  choose  a  piece  of  ground  for  their 
Communist  experiment.  They  chose  a  farm  of  over  thirteen 
acres  at  Abbevdale,  which  the  Guild  bought  in  1877  at  a 
cost  of  i'!i,J287  Ifo.  6</.  for  their  use, — the  communists  agree- 
ing to  pay  the  money  back  in  instalments,  without  interest, 
by  the  end  of  seven  years  :  when  the  farm  should  be  their 
own. 

When  it  was  actually  in  their  hands  they  found  that  they 
knew  nothing  of  farming, — and  besides,  were  making  money 
at  trades  they  tlitl  not  really  care  to  abandon.  Thev  engaged 
a  man  to  work  the  farm  for  them  :  and  then  another.  They 
were  told  that  the  land  they  had  chosen  was — for  farming 
purposes — worthless.  'ITieir  ca|>ital  ran  short ;  and  they  tried 
to  make  money  by  keeping  a  tea-garden.  The  original  pro- 
poser of  the  scheme  wrote  to  Mr.  Ruskin,  who  sint  -i'lOO: — 
the  others  returned  the  money.  Mr.  Ruskin  declined  to  take 
it  back,  and  began  to  j)erceive  that  the  C'onmnmi.sts  were 
trifling.  Tliey  had  made  no  attem|)t  to  found  the  sort  of 
community  they  had  tidkcd  about;  neither  their  plans  nor 
his  were  iKMng  carricti  out.  So  when  the  original  proposer 
and  a  frienil  of  his  named  Rilev  approached  Mr.  Ruskin  again, 
tlicy  found  little  dillicuity  in  j)ei-suading  him  to  try  them  as 
managers.  ITie  rest,  (inding  themselves  turned  out  by  Riley, 
vainly  demanded  'explanations'  from  Mr.  Ruskin,  who  then 
was  drifting  into  liis  fii-st  attack  of  brain  fever.  So  they 
declined  further  connection  with  the  farm  ;  the  Guild  accepted 


818        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

their  resignation,  and  undertook  for  the  time  nothing  more 
than  to  get  the  land  into  good  condition  again. 

This  was  not  the  only  land  held  by  the  St.  George's  Guild. 
It  acquired  the  acre  of  ground  on  which  the  Sheffield  Museum 
stood,  and  a  cottage  with  a  couple  of  acres  near  Scarborough. 
Two  acres  of  rock  and  moor  at  Barmouth  had  been  given  by 
Mrs.  Talbot  in  1872;  and  in  1877  Mr.  George  Baker,  then 
Mayor  of  Birmingham,  gave  twenty  acres  of  woodland  at 
Bewdley  in  Worcestershire,  to  which  at  one  time  Mr.  Ruskin 
thought  of  moving  the  museum,  bcf  jre  the  present  building 
was  found  for  it  by  the  Sheffield  Corporation  at  Meersbrook 
Park.  On  the  resignation  of  the  original  Trustees,  in  1877, 
]Mr.  Q.  Talbot  and  Mr.  Baker  were  offered  the  tiiist :  and  on 
the  death  of  ^Ir.  Talbot  the  trust  was  acc-epted  by  Mr.  John 
Henrv  Chamberlain.  After  he  died  it  was  taken  bv  Mr. 
George  Thomson  of  Huddersfield,  whose  woollen  mills,  trans- 
formed into  a  co-operative  concern,  though  not  directlv  in 
connection  with  the  Guild,  have  given  a  widely  known  ex- 
ample of  the  working  of  principles  advocated  in  '  Fors.' 

In  the  middle  of  1S76,  Mr.  Egbert  Uydings,  the  auditor  of 
the  accounts  which,  in  accordance  with  his  principles  of  '  glass 
pockets,'  Mr.  Ruskin  published  in  '  Fors,'  proposed  to  start  a 
homespun  woollen  industry  at  Laxey,  in  the  Isle  of  3Ian, 
where  the  old  women  who  formerly  spun  with  the  wheel  had 
been  driven  by  failure  of  custom  to  work  in  the  mines.  The 
Guild  built  him  a  water  mill,  and  in  a  few  years  the  demand 
for  a  pure,  rough,  durable  cloth,  created  by  this  and  kindred 
attempts,  justified  the  enterprise.  Mr.  Ruskin  set  the 
example,  and  had  his  own  gvey  clothes  made  of  Lasey  stuffs 
— whose  chief  drawback  is  that  they  never  wear  out.  A  little 
later  a  similar  work  was  done,  witli  even  greater  success,  by 
Mr.  Albert  Fleming,  another  member  of  the  Guild  ;  who 
introduced  old-fa.shioned  spinning  and  hand-loom  weaving  at 
Langdale.  The  new  material  was  speedily  taken  up  bv  the 
public,  not  only  as  a  staple  of  domestic  use,  but  as  a  fine 
material  for  embroider^'  and  lace-work  :  and  emplovment  was 
found  for  a  great  number  of  idle  hands,     Later,  the  Ruskin 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  ST.  MARK  819 

Linen  Industn',  as  it  is  called,  was  carried  on  at  Keswick 
uiukr  Miss  Twelves  ;  the  Lanj^dale  Linen,  with  headquarters 
at  Kltcrwuter,  Aiwhiisidc,  was  taken  over  by  Miss  Mary 
Aiif;u.sta  Sni.th  ;  and  siniiiar  cnter|)rises  are  prosecuted  in 
otiiiT  |)liu«.s,  with  no  sijjns  of  faiiuix':  sliowiiij^  that  the 
Bcetl  of  'l-'ors'  where  it  tell  on  good  ground  was  capable  of 
beiiriiijj  an  abumlant  harvest. 

To  ntuni  from  Mr.  Rnskin's  work  to  his  life.  We  left 
him  at  Shelliclil,  jiostinjj  northwards,  in  April  1S76,  after  his 
interview  with  tlie  Communists.  The  story  of  that  journey 
was  toUl  many  years  aflerwartis,  at  the  opening  of  the  new 
Sheflioid  museum,  by  Mr.  Artluir  Severn,  a  famous  raconteur, 
whose  description  of  the  adventures  of  their  cruise  upon 
wheels  includes  .so  bright  a  picture  of  Mr.  Ruskin,  that  I 
must  use  his  wonls  as  they  were  reported  on  the  occasion  in 
the  magazine  IgdrasU: — 

.  .  .  '  With  the  Professor,  who  dislikes  railways  very  much, 
it  was  not  a  question  of  travelling  by  rail.  He  said,  "I  will 
take  you  in  a  carriage  and  with  horses,  and  we  will  drive  the 
whole  wftv  from  Ixinilon  to  the  North  of  England.  And  I 
will  not  only  do  that,  but  I  will  do  the  best  in  my  power  to 
pet  a  |>ostilion  to  ride,  and  we  will  go  quite  in  the  old- 
f)L-hii>ne<l  way."  .  .  .  The  Professor  went  so  far  that  he 
actually  built  a  carriage  for  this  drive.  It  was  a  regular 
posting  carriage,  with  good  strong  wheels',  a  place  behind  for 
the  luggage,  and  cunning  drawers  inside  it  for  all  kinds  of 
things  that  we  might  require  on  the  journey.  We  startetl  off 
one  tine  morning  from  London — I  must  say  w  ithout  a  postilion 
— but  when  we  arrived  at  the  next  town,  about  twenty  miles 
ofl',  having  tclegrnjihed  beforehand  that  we  were  coming,  there 
was  a  gorgeous  |H>stilion  ready  with  the  fresh  horses,  and  we 
•tarted  off  in  a  right  style,  acconling  to  the  Professor's  wishes. 

'Alter  many  plea.-^nt  days  of  travelling,  we  at  last  arrived 
at  ^-luflield,  and  I  well  n'mend>er  that  we  createtl  no  small 
•cnsation  as  we  clattered  up  to  the  old  posting  inn.  I  think 
it  was  the  King's  Head.     We  stayed  a  few  days,  and  visited 


320        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

the  old  Museum  at  Walkley ;  and  I  remember  the  look  mf 
rejriet  on  the  Professor's  face  when  he  saw  how  cramped  the 
space  was  there  for  the  things  he  had  to  show.  However, 
with  his  usual  kindliness,  he  did  not  say  much  about  it  at  the 
time,  and  he  did  not  complain  of  the  considerable  amount  of 
room  it  was  necessary  for  the  curator  and  his  family  to  take 
up  in  that  place.  We  staged  about  two  days  looking  at  the 
beautiful  country, — and  I  am  glad  to  say  there  was  a  good 
deal  still  left, — and  then  the  Professor  gave  orders  that  the 
carriage  should  be  got  ready  to  take  us  on  our  journey,  and 
that  a  postilion  should  be  forthcoming,  if  possible.  1  re- 
member leaving  the  luncheon  table  and  going  outside  to  see 
if  the  necessary  arrangements  were  comjilete.  Sure  enough, 
there  was  the  carriage  at  the  door,  and  a  still  more  gorgeous 
postilion  than  any  we  had  had  so  far  on  our  journey.  His 
riding  breeches  were  of  the  tightest  and  whitest  I  ever  saw  ; 
his  horses  were  an  admirable  pair,  and  looked  like  going.  A 
very  large  crowd  had  assembled  outside  the  inn,  to  see  what 
extraordinary  kind  of  mortals  could  be  going  to  travel  in 
such  a  way. 

'  I  went  to  the  room  where  the  Professor  was  still  at 
luncheon,  and  told  him  that  everything  was  ready,  but  that 
there  was  a  very  large  crowd  at  the  door.  He  seemed  rather 
amused ;  and  I  said,  "  You  know.  Professor,  I  really  don't 
know  what  the  people  expect— whether  it  is  a  bride  and 
bridegroom,  or  what."  He  said,  "  ^Vell,  Arthur,  you  and 
Joan  shall  play  at  being  bride  and  bridegroom  inside  the 
carriage,  and  I  will  get  on  the  box."  He  got  IVIrs.  Severn  on 
his  arm,  and  had  to  hold  her  pretty  tightly  as  he  left  the 
door,  because  wlien  she  saw  the  crowd  outside  she  tried  to 
beat  a  retreat.  At  last  he  got  her  into  the  carriage,  I  was 
put  in  afterwards,  and  he  jumped  up  on  the  box.  The  crowd 
closed  in,  and  looked  at  us  as  if  we  were  a  sort  of  menagerie. 
I  was  nmch  amused  when  I  thought  how  little  these  eager 
people  knew  that  the  real  attraction  was  on  the  box ;  I  felt 
inclined  to  put  my  head  out  of  the  window,  and  say,  "  ]My 
good  people,  there  is  the  man  you  should  look  at, — ^not  us." 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  ST.  MARK  821 

I  (lid  not  like  to  do  so  ;  and  the  Professor  jjavc  tlie  word  to 
be  oil',  the  postilion  cracked  his  wliip,  and  we  went  oti'  in 
grand  style,  amidst  the  ciicers  of  the  crowd. 

'  We  very  soon  ;;ot  to  one  of  the  steep  hills  wliich  seem  to 
abound  here,  and  went  up  at  a  hand  {^.illop.  Towards  the 
top  of  it  one  of  the  honses  tinned  out  to  be  very  rcstles.s,  and 
it  was  evidently  a  sort  of  jibber.  The  "rorgeous  postilion 
had  great  dillicully  to  control  it;  and  at  lust  (I  himlly  like 
to  mention  such  things),  but  in  his  efforts  to  control  this 
wild  Shellield  animal  the.se  gorgeous  riding  trousers  went 
oft'  "pop."  They  cracked  like  a  sail  in  a  gale  of  wind.  The 
horse  became  still  more  restive,  and  at  last  the  whole  thing 
CAinc  to  a  stanilstill.  We  had  to  get  out,  and  the  Professor 
got  down  from  the  box. 

'  lie  treats  any  little  accident  like  that  with  the  utmost 
coolness,  and  he  seemed  glad  of  the  delay,  because  it  enabled 
him  to  look  at  the  view,  which  he  was  piea-sed  to  show  us. 
We  turned  furtively  round  every  now  and  then  to  see  how 
the  postilion  was  going  on  and  what  he  was  doing.  He  took 
the  saiUlle  off  the  horee  he  was  riding,  and  put  it  on  the 
restive  one.  We  were  amused  at  his  cleverness,  for  whenever 
he  saw  we  were  looking  towards  him  he  always  managed  to 
get  a  horse  between  us  and  the  accident  which  had  ha|)pened 
to  his  trousers.  When  everything  was  ready  we  got  in  again, 
and  at  last  arrived  at  Brantwooil,  after  a  most  delightful 
three  weeks  and  a  half  of  travelling,  getting  there  one  sunny 
afternoon,  and  hardly  knowing  how  we  had  reached  there, 
the  journey  had  been  so  plea.sant.  The  l'r;)fess;)r  took  a 
chess-boaril  on  that  occasion,  and  over  some  of  the  long,  and 
to  him  rather  dreary  Voikshire  muoi-s,  we  used  to  play  games 
at  chc-ss.' 

On  one  of  those  posting  exctirsions,  they  came  to  Hard  raw. 
(Mi-s.  Alfred  Hunt  tells  the  story  in  her  edition  of  'I'urner's 
•  Richmonilshiix'';  Mr.  Severn's  account  is  somewhat  dillLient.) 
After  examining  the  Pall,  Mrs.  Severn  and  Mr.  Uuskin  left 
Mr.  Severn  to  sketch,  and  went  away  to  Ilawes  to  order  their 
21 


B22        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

tea.  'VMien  they  were  gone,  a  man  who  had  been  standing  h 
by  came  up  and  askeil  if  that  were  Professor  Kuskin.  '  Yes,' 
said  Mr.  Severn,  '  it  was :  he  is  very  fontl  of  the  Fall,  and 
much  |ju//led  to  know  why  the  eclce  of  the  cliff  is  not  worn 
away  by  the  water,  as  he  expecteil  to  find  it  after  so  many 
years.'  '  Oh,'  said  the  other,  '  there  are  twelve  feet  of 
masonry  up  there  to  protect  the  rock.  I'm  a  native  of  the 
place,  and  know  all  about  it.'  '  I  wish,'  said  Mr.  Severn, 
absently,  as  he  went  on  drawing,  '  ]\Ir.  Ruskin  knew  that ;  he 
would  be  so  interested.'  And  the  stranger  ran  off.  When 
the  sketcher  came  in  to  tea  he  felt  there  was  something 
wrong.  '  You're  in  for  it !'  said  his  wife.  '  Let  us  look  at 
his  sketch  first,'  said  ]\lr.  Ruskin ;  and  luckily  it  was  a  veiy 
good  one.  By  and  by  it  all  came  out ; — how  the  Yorkshire- 
man  had  caught  tlie  Professor,  and  eagerly  described  the 
hoixible  Vandalism,  receiving  in  reply  some  very  emphatic 
language.  Upon  which  he  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed  low  : 
'  But,  sir,'  he  faltered,  '  the  gentleman  up  there  said  I  was  to 
tell  you,  and  you  would  be  so  interested !'  The  Professor, 
suddenly  mollified,  took  off  his  hat  in  turn,  and  apologised 
for  his  reception  of  the  news  :  'but,'  said  he,  'I  shall  never 
care  for  Hardraw  Waterfall  again.' 

'  The  Professor,'  said  Mr.  Severn,  '  dislikes  railways  very 
much  :'  and  on  his  arrival  at  Brantwood  after  that  posting 
journey  he  wrote  a  preface  to  '  A  Protest  against  the  Exten- 
sion of  Railways  in  the  Lake  District,'  by  Mr.  Robert 
Somervell.  Mr.  Ruskin's  dislike  of  railways  has  been  the 
text  of  a  gi-eat  deal  of  misrepresentation,  and  his  use  of 
them,  at  all,  has  been  often  quoted  as  an  inconsistency. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  never  objected  to  main  lines  of 
railway  communication  ;  but  he  strongly  objected,  in  conmion 
with  a  vast  number  of  people,  to  the  introduction  of  rail- 
ways into  districts  whose  chief  interest  is  in  their  scenery; 
especially  where,  as  in  the  English  Lake  district,  the  scenery 
is  in  miniature,  easily  spoiled  by  embankments  and  viaducts, 
and  by  the  rows  of  ugly  buildings  which  usually  grow  up 
round  a  station  ;  and  where  the  beauty  of  the  landscape  can 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  ST.  MARK  823 

only  be  felt  in  quiet  walks  or  drives  through  it.  Many  years 
later,  after  he  had  said  all  he  had  to  sny  on  the  subject  again 
Rntl  aj;ain,  and  was  on  the  brink  of  one  of  his  illnesses,  he 
wrote  in  violent  language  to  a  correspondent  who  tried  to 
'  draw  '  him  on  the  subject  of  another  proposed  railway  to 
Ambleside.  Hut  his  real  opinions  were  simple  enough,  and 
consistent  with  a  practicable  scheme  of  life — as  can  be  leul 
in  the  preface  to  Mr.  Somerveirs  tract,  reprinted  in  '  On  the 
Old  Uoad,'  vol.  i.,  J).  682. 

In  August  liSTG  he  left  England  for  Italy.  He  travelled 
alone,  accom|)anietl  only  by  his  new  servant  Baxter,  who 
hatl  lately  Uiken  the  place  vacated  by  Crawley,  Mr. 
Ruskin's  former  valet  of  twenty  years'  service.  He  crossed 
the  Simplon  to  Venice,  where  he  was  welcomed  by  an  old 
frienil,  Mr.  Rawdon  Hrown,  and  a  new  frienil,  Prof  C.  H. 
Mooiv  of  Harvard.  He  met  two  Oxford  pupils,  Mr.  J.  Reddie 
Anderson,  whom  he  set  to  work  on  Carpaccio ;  and  Mr. 
Whitehead — 'So  much  nicer  they  all  are,'  he  wrote  in  a  pri- 
vate letter, 'than  I  was  at  their  age;' — also  his  pujiil  Mr. 
Bunney,  at  work  on  co|)ies  of  pictures  and  records  of  archi- 
tecture, the  legacy  of  St.  Mark  to  St.  Geoi'ge.  Two  young 
artists  were  brought  into  his  circle,  during  that  winter — both 
Venetians,  and  both  singularly  interesting  men :  Giacomo 
Boni,  the  capo  d'  opera  of  the  Ducal  I'alace,  who  was  doing 
his  best  to  preserve,  instead  of  '  restoring,'  the  ancient  sculp- 
tures;  and  Angelo  Ale.s.siindri,  a  jiainter  of  more  than  usual 
seriousness  of  aim  and  sympathy  with  the  fine  qualities  of  the 
old  mfisters. 

Mr.  Ruskin  had  been  engaged  on  a  manual  of  drawing  for 
his  Oxfonl  schools,  which  he  now  meant  to  complete  in  two 
parts:  'The  Ijiws  of  lesole' — teaching  the  principles  of  Flo- 
rentine draughtsmanship;  and  'TheLawsof  Rivo  Alto' — about 
Venetian  colour.  1'ius.sages  for  this  second  part  were  written. 
But  he  found  him.self  so  deeply  interested  in  the  evolution  of 
Venetian  art,  and  in  tracing  the  spirit  of  the  people  as  shown 
by  the  mythology  illustniteil  in  the  pictures  and  sculptures, 
^t  his  practical  manual  became  a  sketch  of  art  history, 

21— a 


824        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

'  St.  Mark's  Rest ' — as  a  sort  of  companion  to  '  Mornings  in 
Florence/  which  he  had  been  working  at  during  his  last  visit 
to  Italy.  His  intention  was  to  supersede  '  Stones  of  Venice ' 
by  a  smaller  book,  giving  more  prominence  to  the  ethical  side 
of  history,  which  should  illustrate  Carpaccio  as  the  most  im- 
portant figure  of  the  transition  period,  and  do  away  with  the 
exclusive  Protestantism  of  his  earlier  work. 

He  set  himself  to  this  task,  with  Tintorefs  motto — . 
'  Sempre  si  fa  il  mare  maggiore,'  and  worked  with  feverish 
energy,  recording  his  progress  in  letters  home  (with  which 
the  reader  may  compare  letters  to  Miss  Beever  in  '  Hortus 
Inclusus,'  pages  36-46). 

'  13  iVoD. — I  never  was  yet,  in  my  life,  in  such  a  state  of 
hopeless  confusion  of  letters,  drawings  and  work :  chiefly 
because,  of  course,  when  one  is  old,  one's  done  work  seems  all 
to  tumble  in  upon  one,  and  want  rearranging,  and  everything 
brings  a  thousand  old  as  well  as  new  thoughts.  My  head 
seems  less  capable  of  accounts  every  year.  I  can't  fix  my 
mind  on  a  sum  in  addition — it  goes  off',  between  seven  and 
nine,  into  a  speculation  on  the  seven  deadly  sins  or  the  nine 
muses.  My  table  is  heaped  with  unanswered  letters, — 
MS.  of  four  or  five  different  books  at  six  or  seven  different 
parts  of  each, — sketches  getting  rubbed  out, — others  getting 
smudged  in, — parcels  from  Mr.  Brown  unopened,  parcels  yor 
Mr.  Moore  unsent ;  my  inkstand  in  one  place, — too  probalily 
upset, — my  pen  in  another ;  my  paper  under  a  pile  of  books, 
and  my  last  carefully  written  note  thrown  into  the  waste- 
paper  basket. 

'  3  Dec. — I'm  having  nasty  foggy  weather  just  now, — but 
it's  better  than  fog  in  London, — and  I'm  really  resting  a 
little,  and  trying  not  to  be  so  jealou>  of  the  flying  days.  I've 
a  most  cuinfy  room  [at  the  Grand  Hotel] — I've  gone  out  of 
the  very  expensive  one,  and  only  pay  twelve  francs  a  day  ; 
and  I've  two  windows,  one  with  open  balcony  and  the  other 
covered  in  with  glass.  It  spoils  the  look  of  window  dnal- 
fiilly,  hut  gives  me  a  view  right  away  to  Lido,  and  of  the 
whole  sunrise.     Then  the  bed  is  curtained  off  from  rest  of 


ST.  GEORGE  AND  ST.  MARK  825 

room  like  that  [skcti'Ii  of  window  and  room]  with  fine  floiir- 
isliinj;  white  and  j^old  pilhii-s — and  the  black  phice  is  where 
one  goes  out  of  the  room  beside  the  beil.' 

'9  DiC. — I  hope  to  send  liome  a  sketch  or  two  which  will 
.show  I'm  not  quite  losinj;  my  head  yet.  ...  I  must  show  at 
O.xforil  some  rea-son  for  my  staying  so  long  in  ^'enice.'' 

Heside  studies  in  the  Ciia|iel  of  St.  (leorge,  he  copied  Car- 
paccio's  '  Dre.un  of  St.  Ui-sula '  which  was  taken  down — ■ 
it  had  been  '>kicil'  at  the  Academy  until  then — and  jilaced 
in  the  sculpture  gallery  ;  and  he  laboured  to  jiroduce  b. 
facsimile. 

'  5J4  Dec. — I  do  think  St.  Ursula's  lips  are  coming  pretty 
— and  her  eyelids — but  oh  me,  her  hair!  Toiii,  Mr.  Jhown's 
gondolier,  sjiys  she's  all  right — and  he's  a  grave  and  close 
looking  judge,  vou  know.' 

C'hriNtmas  Day  w;is  a  crisis  in  his  life.  He  was  attacked 
by  illness;  severe  pain,  followed  by  a  dreamy  state  in  which 
the  vividly  realized  j)resence  of  St.  Ui-sula  mingled  with 
memories  of  his  dead  lady,  whose  '  spirit '  had  been  .shown 
him  just  a  year  before  by  a  'medium'  met  at  a  country 
house.  Since  then  he  had  watched  eagerly  for  evidences  of 
another  life :  and  the  sense  of  its  conceivability  grew  upon 
him,  in  spite  of  the  doubts  which  he  had  entertained  of  the 
immortality  of  the  soul.  At  last,  after  a  year's  earnest  de.iire 
for  some  such  a.s.surance,  it  seemed  to  come  to  him.  What 
others  call  coincidences,  anil  accidents,  and  states  of  mind 
flashed,  for  him,  into  importance;  times  and  seasons, 
names  and  symbols,  took  a  vivid  meaning.  His  intense 
despondency  changed  for  a  while  into  a  singular  happiness- 
it  seemed  a  renewed  health  and  strength :  and  instead  of 
desp.iir,  he  rejoiced  in  the  conviction  of  guarding  Providences 
and  helpful  iiilluences. 

Ueadei-s  of  *  Fors '  had  traced  for  some  years  back  the 
reawakening  of  a  religious  tone,  now  culminating  in  a 
pn)noimced  mysticism  which  they  could  not  understand, 
and  in  a  recantation  of  the  sceptical  judgments  of  his 
middle  period.     He  found,  now,  new  excellences  in  the  early 


326        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Christian  painting ;  he  depreciated  Turner  and  Tintoret,  and 
denounced  the  frivolous  art  of  the  day.  He  searched  the 
Bible  more  diligently  than  ever  for  its  hidden  meanings  ;  and 
in  proportion  as  he  felt  its  inspiration,  he  recoiled  from  the 
conclusions  of  modem  science,  and  wrapped  the  prophet's 
mantle  more  closely  round  him,  as  he  denounced  with  growing 
fervour  the  crimes  of  our  unbelieving  age. 


CIIAPlT.n  Y. 

DEUCALION  AND  PROSERPINA.     (1877-1879.) 

'  Quam  piEtie  furvte  regna  ProserpineB 
....  vidimus.' 

Horace,  Od.  II.  13. 

THROUGHOUT  Mr.  Ruskin's  life,  but  never  more  than 
ill  this  period,  we  have  had  to  trace  different  interests 
and  lines  of  work,  running  at  cross  purposes,  like  the 
'cleavage  planes '  he  has  described  in  the  Alps.  To  render 
the  mere  ([uantitv  of  detail  hv  which  alone,  as  he  says,  the 
size  of  a  subject  can  be  suggested — and  yet  to  keep  the 
breaillh  of  eH'ect,  and  choose  the  leading  lines  that  will  give 
the  whole  truth  in  its  proper  relations  and  perspective,  would 
need  a  Turner  in  literary  art.  We  must  look  back,  now  and 
then,  to  retrace  lines  of  work  which  have  been  perforce 
omitted. 

In  the  sunnner  of  1875,  while  his  two  pupils  were  harbour- 
digging  and  Xenophon-translating  at  Brantwood,  Mr.  Kuskin 
wrote  : — 

'I  begin  to  ask  myself,  with  somewhat  pressing  arithmetic, 
how  much  time  is  likely  to  be  left  me,  at  the  age  of  fifty-six, 
to  com|)lete  the  various  designs  for  which,  until  piust  fifty,  I 
wn-s  merely  collw-ting  material.  Of  these  materials  I  have 
now  enough  by  me  for  a  most  interesting  (in  my  own  o|)inion) 
history  of  fifteenth  century  I'lorentine  Art,  in  six  octavo 
volumes;  an  analysis  of  the  Attic  art  of  the  fifth  century  b.c. 
in  three  volumes;  an  exhaustive  history  of  northern  thirteenth- 
century  art,  in  t<:n  volumes  ;  a  life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  with 


828        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

analysis  of  modem  epic  art,  in  seven  volumes;  a  life  of  Xeno- 
phon,  with  analysis  of  the  general  principles  of  education,  in 
ten  volumes  ;  a  commentary  on  Hesiod,  with  final  analysis  of 
the  principles  of  Political  Economy,  in  nine  volumes ;  and  a 
general  descrijition  of  the  geology  and  botany  of  the  Alps,  in 
twenty-four  volumes.'  Tlie  estimate  of  volumes  was — perhaps 
— in  jest ;  but  the  plans  for  harvesting  his  material  were  in 
earnest. 

'  Proserpina' — so  named  from  the  Flora  of  the  Greeks,  the 
daughter  of  Demeter,  Mother  Earth, — grew  out  of  notes 
already  begun  in  1SG6.  It  was  little  like  an  ordinary  botany 
book  ; — that  was  to  be  expected.  It  did  not  dissect  plants  ; 
it  did  not  give  chemical  or  histological  analysis  :  but  with 
bright  and  curious  fancy,  with  the  most  ingenious  diagrams 
and  perfect  drawings — beautifully  engraved  by  IJurgess  and 
Allen — illustrated  the  mystery  of  growth  in  plants  and  the 
tender  beauty  of  their  form.  Though  this  was  not  science, 
in  strict  terms  it  was  a  field  of  work  which  no  one  but  Mr. 
Raskin  had  cultivated.  He  was  helped  by  a  few  scientific 
men  like  Professor  Oliver,  who  saw  a  value  in  his  line  of 
thought,  and  showed  a  kindly  interest  in  it. 

'Deucalion' — from  the  mythical  creator  of  human  life  out 
of  stones — was  begun  as  a  companion  work  :  to  be  published 
in  parts,  as  the  repertory  of  Oxford  lectures  on  Alpine  form, 
and  notes  on  all  kinds  of  kindred  subjects.  For  instance, 
before  that  hasty  journey  to  Sheffield  he  gave  a  lecture  at  the 
London  Institution  on  'Precious  Stones'  (February  17th, 
repeated  March  2Sth,  1876.  A  lecture  on  a  similar  subject 
was  given  to  the  boys  of  Christ's  Hospital  on  April  15th). 
For  this  lecture,  as  usual,  he  sought  help  from  his  pupils,  and 
sent  a  pressing  note  by  the  college-messenger  one  morning  to 
bid  one  of  his  younger  friends  run  to  various  professors,  and 
make  iniiuiries  about  etymological  a.id  mineralogical  details: 
— '  What  else  ai'e  the  professors  there  for  ?''  he  would  say ; 
and  he  would  be  greatly  impressed  if  we  could  answer  his 
questions  without  appeal  to  the  higher  powers.  The  day  after 
the  first  lecture  he  wrote : — 


DEUCALION  AND  PROSERPINA  829 

•Tliose  Firnch  dorivutions  are  like  them.  No  nutlioiitics 
on  IKnil.liy  mu  of  tlit-  .sli-htist  value  niter  the  fifteenth 
ceiiturv — even  (iiiillini  is  only  gooil  for  something  in 
the  (ii-st  eililioii,  the  rest  nowhere.  My  pearl  is  all  rif^ht 
— I  f;ot  it  from  the  book  of  St.  Albans,  1480 — but  my 
shielil  is  not  absolutely  in  the  old  terms.  I  invent  Colom- 
bin,  for  the  olil  "  plumby,"  and  use  "  ecarlate "  for  tenne 
— mine  is  to  be  the  norma  for  St.  George's  heraldry,  not 
a  nieivly  historical  sunun.iry.  I  hope  to  be  back  on  Satur- 
day evening.  .  .  .  The  lecture  went  well  and  pleased  my 
audience — and  pleased  mvself  better  than  usual  in  that 
I  R'ally  got  everything  said  that  I  intended,  of  impor- 
tance. .   .  .' 

This  lecture,  called  '  'llie  Iris  of  the  Earth,'  stood  first  in 
Part  III.  of  'Deucalion':  anil  the  work  went  on,  in  studies 
of  the  formsof  silica,  on  the  lines  marked  out  ten  years  before 
in  the  p:>pei-s  on  ISaiuled  ami  IJrecciated  concretions ;  now 
canieil  forwaixl  with  much  kind  help  from  the  Rev.  J.Clifton 
Ward,  of  the  (Geological  Survey,  and  Mr.  Henry  Willett, 
F.G.S.,  of  Brighton. 

On  the  way  home  over  the  Simplon  in  May  and  June  1877, 
travelling  fii-st  with  Signor  Alessandri,  and  then  with  Mr.  G. 
Allen,  Professor  Ruskin  continued  his  studies  of  Alpine 
flowers  for  '  Proserpina.'  In  the  autmnn  he  gave  a  lecture  at 
Kendal  (Oct.  1st,  repe.ileil  at  Eton  College  Dec.  8th)  on 
*  Vewdale  anil  its  Streamlets.' 

'Vewdale' — reprinted  as  Part  V.  of  'Deucalion' — took 
an  unusual  importance  in  his  own  mind,  not  only  because  it 
was  a  givat  succt>s  as  a  lecture, — though  some  Kenilalians 
coiiipiiined  that  there  wilh  not  enough  'information'  in  it: — 
but  liecau^e  it  was  the  lii-st  given  since  that  Christmas  at 
Venice,  when  a  new  insight  had  been  gmnteil  him,  as  he  felt, 
into  "ipiritual  things,  and  a  new  burden  laid  on  liim,  to  with- 
•tiind  the  rash  conclusions  of  'science  falsely  so  callcil,' and 
to  pieuch  in  their  place  the  presence  of  God  in  nature  and  in 
man. 

Writing  to  Miss  Beever  about  his  Oxford  course  of  that 


830        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

autumn,  '  Readings  in  INIodem  Painters,'*  he  said,  on  the 
2nd  December  : — '  I  gave  yesterday  the  twelftli  and  last  of 
my  course  of  lectures  this  term,  to  a  room  crowded  by  six 
hundred  people,  two-thirds  members  of  the  University,  and 
with  its  door  wedged  open  by  those  who  could  not  get  in  ; 
this  interest  of  theirs  being  granted  to  me,  I  doubt  not, 
beciiuse  for  the  first  time  in  Oxford  I  have  been  able  to  sjjeak 
to  them  boldly  of  immortal  life.  I  intended  when  I  began 
the  course  only  to  have  read  'Modern  Painters'  to  them; 
but  when  I  began,  some  of  your  favourite  bitsf  interested  the 
men  so  much,  and  brought  so  much  larger  a  proportion  of 
undergraduates  than  usual,  that  I  took  pains  to  re-inforce 
and  press  them  home ;  and  people  say  I  have  never  given 
so  useful  a  course  yet.  But  it  has  taken  all  my  time  and 
strength.' 

He  wrote  again,  on  Dec.  16th,  from  Heme  Hill  : — '  It  is  a 
long  while  since  I've  felt  so  good-for-nothing  as  I  do  this 
morning.  My  very  wristbands  curl  up  in  a  dog's-eared  and 
disconsolate  manner;  my  little  room  is  all  a  heap  of  disorder. 
I've  got  a  hoarseness  and  wheezing  and  sneezing  and  coughing 
and  choking.  I  can't  speak  and  I  can't  think  ;  I'm  miserable 
in  bed  and  useless  out  of  it ;  and  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  could 
never  venture  to  open  a  window  or  go  out  of  a  door  any 
more.  I  have  the  dimmest  sort  of  diabolical  pleasure  in 
thinking  how  miserable  I  shall  make  Susie  by  telling  her  all 
this  ;  but  in  other  respects  I  seem  entirely  devoid  of  all  moral 
sentiments.  I  have  arrived  at  this  state  of  things,  firet  by 
catching  cold,  and  since  trying  to  "amuse  myself"  for  three 
days.'  He  goes  on  to  give  a  list  of  his  amusements — Pick- 
wick, chivalric  romances,  the  Daily  Telegraph,  Staunton's 
games  of  chess,  and  finally  analysis  of  the  Dock  Company's 
bill  of  charges  on  a  box  from  Venice. 

*  Novr.  6,  8,  10,  13,  15,  17,  20,  22, 24,  27,  29  and  Dec.  1. 1S77.  These 
lectures  were  never  prepared  for  publication  as  a  course  j  the  last 
lecture  waa  printed  in  the  Xuvt'-eHlh  Century  for  January,  1873. 

t  Miss  Beeverhad  published  early  in  1875  the  extracts  from  '  Modern 
Painters '  so  widely  known  as  '  Froudea  Agrestea.' 


DEUC.VLION  AND  PROSERPINA  831 

Ten  days  after  he  wrote  from  Oxford,  in  liis  wliinisical 
Btvie  : — '  Vesteitlay  I  had  two  lovely  services  in  my  own 
cathedral.  You  know  the  Cathedral  of  Oxfoixl  is  the  chapel 
of  Christ  Chuivh  College,  and  I  have  my  hij^li  sent  in  the 
chaiicei,  as  an  honorary  student,  hesides  heinj;  bred  there,  and 
so  one  is  ever  so  |)roud  and  ever  so  pious  all  at  once,  which  is 
ever  so  nice  you  i<now  :  and  my  own  dean,  that's  tlie  Dean  of 
Christ  Cliurch,  who  is  a.s  hij;  a.s  any  bishoj),  read  the  services, 
and  the  psalms  and  anthems  were  lovely  ;  and  then  I  dined 
with  Ilenrv  Adand  and  his  family  .  .  .  but  I  do  wish  I  could 
be  at  Ihantwood  too.'  Next  ilay  it  wa.s  '  Cold  (piite  gone.' 
Hut  he  wiis  not  to  be  quit  so  easily  this  time  of  the  results  of 
overwork  and  worry. 

lie  liad  been  pa.>i.sing  through  the  unpleasant  experience  of 
a  misunderstaniling  with  one  of  his  most  trustetl  friends  and 
helpers.  His  work  on  behalf  of  the  St.  George's  Guild  had 
been  energetic  and  sincere  :  and  he  had  receiveil  the  support 
of  a  number  of  strangers,  among  whom  were  people  of  re- 
8|x)iisible  sbition  and  position.  Hut  he  was  surprised  to  find 
tliat  many  of  his  jwrsonal  friends  held  aloof.  He  was  still 
more  surprise*!  to  learn,  on  returning  from  Venice,  full  of  new 
ho|>e  and  stronger  convictions  in  his  mi.ssion,  that  the  caution 
of  one  upon  whom  he  had  counted  as  a  firm  ally  had  dis- 
suaded an  intending  ailherent  from  joining  in  the  work.  A 
man  of  the  world,  accustoinetl  to  oveiTeach  and  to  be  over- 
reaclu-d,  wouUl  have  taken  the  discovery  coolly,  and  accepted 
an  explanation.  Hut  Mr.  Ruskin  was  never  a  man  of  the 
wodd  ;  anil  now,  much  less  than  ever.  He  took  it,  not  as  an 
error,  nor  even  so  ntuch  as  a  |)ersonal  attack,  but  as  treason 
to  the  great  work  of  which  he  felt  himself  to  be  the 
inis-sionary.  It  chillctl  his  hopes  and  dashetl  his  zeal  :  and  oa 
it  is  always  the  most  generous  of  men  who.se  suspicions,  once 
iro'isetl,  are'  fiere-c-st,  he  was  quite  unable  to  forgive  and 
forget.  Throughout  the  autunni  antl  winter  the  discovery 
rankli-*!,  and  preyed  on  his  mind.  As  for  the  sake  of 
ib<()lute  candour  he  had  published  in  'Fors'  everything  that 
related  to  the  Guild  woik, — even  his  own  private  adaii-s  and 


832        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

confessions,  whatever  they  risked, — he  felt  that  this  too  must 
out;  in  order  that  his  supporters  might  judge  of  his  conduct 
and  that  nothing  aflecting  the  enterprise  might  be  kept  back. 
And  so,  at  Christmas,  he  sent  the  correspondence  to  his 
printers. 

Years  afterwards,  by  the  intervention  of  friends,  this  breach 
was  healed  :  but  what  suffering  it  cost  can  be  learnt  from  the 
sequel.  To  Mr.  Ruskin  it  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 
His  Aberdeen  con-espondent  asked  just  then  for  the  usual 
Christmas  message  to  the  Bible  class :  and  instead  of  the 
cheery  words  of  bygone  years,  received  the  couplet  fi-om 
Horace : — 

'  Inter  spera  curamque,  timores  inter  et  iras, 
Oinnem  crede  diem  tibi  diluxiase  supreoium.' 

'  Amid  hope  and  sorrow,  amid  fear  and  wrath,  believe  every  day  that 
has  dawned  on  thee  to  be  thy  last.' 

From  Oxford,  early  in  January  1878,  he  went  on  a  visit  to 
Windsor  Castle,  whence  he  wrote :  '  I  came  to  see  Prince 
Leopold,  who  has  been  a  prisoner  to  his  sofa  lately,  but  I 
trust  he  is  better ;  he  is  very  bright  and  gentle  under  severe 
and  almost  continual  pain.''  No  less  gentle,  in  spite  of  the 
severe  justice  he  was  indicting  upon  himself  even  more  than 
upon  his  friend,  was  the  author  of  '  Fors,'  as  the  letters  of  the 
time  to  his  invalid  neighbour,  in  '  Hortus  Inclusus'  show. 
How  ready  to  own  himself  in  the  wrong, — at  that  very 
moment  when  he  was  being  pointed  at  as  the  most  obstinate 
and  egotistic  of  men, — how  placable  he  really  was  and  open 
to  rebuke,  he  showed,  when,  from  Windsor,  he  went  to 
Hawarden.  Nearly  three  years  before  he  had  written  roughly 
of  Mr.  Gladstone ;  as  a  Conservative,  he  was  not  predisposed 
in  favour  of  the  leader  of  the  party  to  whom  he  attributed 
most  of  the  evils  he  was  combating.  INIr.  Gladstone  and  he 
had  often  met,  and  by  no  means  agreed  together  in  conversa- 
tion. But  this  visit  convinced  him  that  he  had  misjudged 
Mr.  Gladstone;  and  he  promptly  made  the  fullest  apology  in 
the  current  number  of  'Fors,'  saying  that  he  had  written 


DEUCALION  AND  PROSERPINA  833 

nndor  a  complete  misconception  of  liis  character.  In  re- 
printinjj  the  old  paints  he  not  only  caiK-ilkil  the  odendinfj 
passji;;e,  but  he  left  the  place  blank,  with  a  note  in  tlie 
aiiddle  of  it,  as  'a  memorial  of  rash  judj^ment.' 

He  went  slowly  northward,  seekinjj  rest  at  Inpjleton ; 
Rrhence  he  wrote,  January  17th  : — '  I've  got  nothing  ilone  all 
the  time  I've  been  awav  but  a  few  mathematical  figures 
cry.stnllography,  no  doubt,  for  "Deucalion"],  and  the  less  I 
lo  the  less  1  tind  I  can  ilo  it ;  anil  yesterday,  for  the  first 
Lime  these  twenty  years,  I  hadn't  so  much  as  a  "  plan  "  in  my 
aeail  nil  ilav.'  Arrived  at  IJrantwood,  as  rest  was  useless,  he 
Lricd  work.  Mr.  Willett  had  asked  him  to  reprint  'The  Two 
I'aths,'  and  he  got  that  ready  for  pres.s,  and  wrote  a  short 
M-cface.  At  \'enice,  Mr.  J.  R.  Anderson  had  been  working 
)ut  for  him  the  mvths  illu.strated  by  Carpaccio  in  the  Chapel 
)f  S.  Ciiorgio  lie"  Sciiiavoni  ;  and  the  book  hail  been  waiting 
"or  Mr.  Ruskin's  introduction  until  he  was  surprised  by  the 
publication  of  an  almost  identical  inquiry  by  M.  Clermont- 
junneau.  He  tried  to  fuUil  his  duty  to  his  pupil  by  writing 
he  preface  innnediatelv ;  most  sorrowfully  feeling  the  in- 
ule(|uacy  of  his  strength  for  the  tasks  he  had  laid  upon  it. 
He  wrote  :  'Jlyown  feeling,  now,  is  that  everything  which 
las  hitherto  happened  to  me,  and  been  done  by  me,  whether 
veil  or  ill,  has  been  fitting  me  to  take  greater  fortune 
iiore  prudently,  and  to  do  better  work  more  thoroughly. 
\nd  just  when  I  seem  to  be  coming  out  of  school, — very  sorry 
o  have  l)een  such  a  foolish  bov,  yet  having  taken  a  prize  or 
wo,  and  expecting  now  to  enter  upon  some  more  serious 
(Usiness  than  cricket, — I  am  tlismisscil  by  the  Master  I  hoped 
o  serve,  with  a — "That's  all  I  want  of  you,  sir."' 

In  such  times  he  found  relief  by  reverting  to  the  past.  He 
rrote  in  the  beginning  of  February  n  paper  for  the  C'n'nrrsi/t/ 
\Inf^(t~Aiu  on  'My  I'irst  Editor,'  W.  H.  Harrison,  and  forgot 
lim.self — almost — in  bright  reminiscences  of  youthful  days 
ml  early  a.ssociations.  Next,  as  ^Ir.  Marcus  Hui.sh,  who  had 
hown  great  friendliness  and  generosity  in  proviiling  prints 
ur  tlie  Sheffield    museum,   was   now   proposing   to  hold  an 


334        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Exhibition  of  IMr.  Ruskin's  '  Turners '  at  the  Fine  Art  Gal- 
'eries  in  New  Bond  Street,  it  was  necessary  to  arranj^e  tlie 
exhibits  and  to  prepare  the  catalogue.  For  the  nest  fort- 
night he  struggled  on  with  this  labour,  and  with  his  last 
'Fors' — the  last  he  was  to  write  in  the  long  series  of  more 
than  seven  years.*  How  little  the  thousands  who  read  the 
preface  to  his  catalogue,  with  its  sad  sketch  of  Turner's  fate, 
and  what  they  supposed  to  be  its  '  customary  burst  of  ter- 
minal eloquence,'  understood  that  it  was  indeed  the  cry  of  one 
who  had  been  wounded  in  the  house  of  his  friends,  and  was 
now  believing  every  day  that  dawned  on  him  to  be  his  last. 
He  told  of  Turners  youthful  picture  of  the  Coniston  Fells 
and  its  invocation  to  the  mists  of  morning,  bidding  them  '  in 
honour  to  the  world's  great  Author,  rise,' — and  then  how 
Turner's  '  health,  and  with  it  in  great  degree  his  mind,  foiled 
suddenly  with  a  snap  of  some  vital  chord,'  after  the  sunset 
splendours  of  his  last,  dazzling  efforts.  .  .  .  'Morning  breaks, 
as  I  write,  along  those  Coniston  Fells,  and  the  level  mists, 
motionless  and  grey  beneath  the  rose  of  the  moorlands,  veil 
the  lower  woods,  and  the  sleeping  village,  and  the  long  lawns 
by  the  lake-shore. 

'  Oh  that  some  one  had  but  told  me,  in  my  youth,  when  all 
my  heart  seemed  to  be  set  on  these  colours  and  clouds,  that 
appear  for  a  little  while  and  then  vanish  away,  how  little  my 
love  of  them  would  serve  nie,  when  the  silence  of  lawn  and 
wood  in  the  dews  of  morning  should  be  completed  ;  and  all 
my  thoughts  should  be  of  those  whom,  by  neither,  I  was  to 
meet  more !' 

The  catalogue  was  finished,  and  huiried  off  to  the  printers. 
A  week  of  agitating  suspense  at  home,  and  then  it  could  no 
longer  be  concealed.  Friends  and  foes  alike  were  startled 
and  saddened  with  the  news  of  his  '  sudden  and  dangerous 
illness.' 

It  was  some  form  of  inflammation  of  the  brain — the  result 
of  overwork,  but  still  more  immediately  of  the  emotional 

*  'Fors'  was  taken  up  again,  at  iutervals,  later  on  ;  but  never  with 
the  same  purpose  and  continuity. 


DEUCALION  AND  PROSERPINA  885 

strain  from  wliiih  he  had  been  sufTorinfj.  It  took  him  quite 
ftt  iiimwnres;  for  though  he  knew  as  well  as  others  that  he 
liiul  U).st  tliat  pence  and  strenji^th  which  he  had  found  in 
Venice,  and  that  his  mind  was  alternately  stimulated  to  un- 
wonted activity  and  deprcsscnl  into  helplessness,  yet  he  had 
not  received  definite  warning,  as  from  any  sort  of  headache 
—  to  which  he  had  always  been  a  stranger  —  nor  from 
approach  to  the  delirium  which  now  waa  the  chief  feature  of 
his  disease. 

On  March  4th,  the  Turner  Exliibition  opened,  and  day  by 
day  the  bulletins  from  Ihantwood  ainiouncing  his  condition 
were  read  by  multitutles  of  vi>itors  with  eager  and  sorrowful 
interest.  Newspapers  all  the  worlil  over  copied  the  daily 
reports  :  even  in  the  towns  of  the  Tar  West  of  America  the 
BJimc  telegrams  were  ])osteil,  and  they  say  even  a  more 
demonstrative  sympathy  was  shown.  Nor  was  the  feeling 
conllned  to  the  Knglish-sjx-aking  public.  The  Oxford  Proctor 
in  Convocation  of  April  21th,  when  the  patient  after  the  first 
burst  of  the  storm  was  slowly  drifting  hack  into  calmer  waters, 
thought  it  worth  while,  in  the  course  of  his  sjieech,  to  men- 
tion that  in  Italy,  where  he  h.ul  lately  been  on  an  Ea.ster 
vacation  tour,  he  had  witnes.sed  a  wiilespread  anxiety  about 
Mr.  Uu>Lin,  anil  |)rayei-s  j)ut  up  for  his  recovery:  'Nee 
rnultuni  abl'uit  iiuin  nuper  ilesideraix't  Academia  morbo  letali 
abreptum  Proil.s.sorem,  in  sua  niateric  unicum,  Joanneni 
Ruskin.  "  Setl  multie  urbes  et  publica  vota  vicerunt."  Neijue 
id  inilignum  memoratu  puto  quod  nuperrime  mihi  in  Italia 
rommoranti  contigit  videre  (juantic  sollicitudines  ob  ejus 
Milutcm,  quanta.'  j)reces  moverentur,  in  ea  terra  cujus  illemtes 
5t  monumenta  tarn  disertissime  ilhistraverit.' 

Hy  May  lOlh  he  was  .so  much  iKtter  that  he  could  com- 
plete the  catalogue  with  .some  go.ssip  al)out  those  Al|)ine 
drawings  of  1S42  which  he  regardetl  as  the  climax  of  Turners 
Rork.  The  fii-st — and  best  in  some  ways — of  the  series  was 
the  Spliigen,  which  had  been  bought  hy  Sir.  Munro,  of  Novar, 
n  the  absence  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  father  ;  and  now  he  believetl  it 
lad  t>ccn  sold  lately  at  Christie's. 


836        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Without  any  word  to  him,  the  dih"gence  of  kind  fi-iends  and 
the  help  of  a  wide  circle  of  admirers  traced  the  di-awinji,  and 
subscribed  its  price — 1000  guineas,  to  which  Mr.  Agnew 
generously  added  his  commission — and  it  was  presented  to 
Mr.  Ruskin  as  a  token  of  sympathy  and  respect.  It  was  a 
timely  and  very  welcome  tribute.  It  showed  him  that  he  still 
had  the  heart  of  the  public  :  that  they  cared  for  himself,  if 
not  for  his  schemes..  He  would  have  preferred  sujjport  for 
St.  George's  work,  but  he  was  not  insensible  to  the  j)ersonal 
compliment  implied,  and  by  way  of  some  answer  he  spent  the 
first  few  days  of  his  convalescence  in  arranging  and  anno- 
tating a  series  of  drajvings  by  himself,  and  engravings,  illus- 
trating the  Turners,  to  add  to  his  show  during  the  remainder 
of  the  season.  AVhen  they  were  sent  off  (early  in  June)  to 
Bond  Street,  he  left  home  with  the  Severns  to  complete  his 
recovery  at  Malhara. 

There  was  another  reason  whv  that  spontaneous  testimonial 
was  welcome  at  the  moment,  for  a  curious  and  unaccustomed 
ordeal  was  impending  for  his  claims  as  an  art  critic.  On  his 
return  from  Venice  after  months  of  intercourse  with  the  great 
Old  INIasters,  he  found  the  Grosvenor  Gallery  just  opened  for 
the  first  time,  with  its  memorable  exhibition  of  the  different 
extra-academical  schools.  It  placed  before  the  public,  in 
sharp  contrast,  the  final  outcome  of  the  Pre-Raphaelitism  for 
which  he  had  fought  many  a  year  before,  and  samples  of  the 
last  new  fashion  from  Paris.  The  maturer  works  of  J\lr. 
Burne-.Jones  had  been  practically  unseen  by  the  public,  and 
Mr.  Ruskin  took  the  opportunity  of  their  exhibition  to  write 
his  praise  of  the  youngest  of  the  Old  IMasters  in  the  current 
number  of  '  Fors,'  and  afterwards  in  two  papers  on  the  '  Three 
Colours  of  Pre-Raphaelitism  '  {X'tncteenth  Century  Magazine, 
November  and  December  1878).  Rut  in  the  same  '  Fors'  he 
dismissed  with  half  a  paragraph  of  contempt  Mr.  Whistler's 
eccentric  sketch  of  Fireworks.  Long  before,  in  1863,  when  he 
was  working  with  various  artists  connected  with  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  circle,  Mr.  Whistler  had  made  overtures  to  the 
great  critic  through  Mr.  Swinburne  the  poet ;  but  he  had  not 


DEUCALION  AND  PROSERPINA  837 

been  taken  seriously.  Now  he  had  become  tbc  missionary  in 
Enjiliiiul  of  tile  new  Trelieli  crospel  of  '  im])re>sionisin,'  wiiieh 
to  Mr.  Hii>l<in  wjis  one  of  tiiose  half-truths  wliieii  are  ever  tiic 
woi-st  of  heresies.  Mr.  \Vlii>tler  n|)|K"aleil  to  tiic  Inw.  He 
broujiht  an  action  for  lihel,  which  was  tried  on  November  25th 
and  iiGth  I  cfore  Haron  lluiiillcston,  and  ivcovered  n  fartliing 
dama<;es.  Mr.  Rusivin's  costs — nniountinj;  to  iJi.SG  12.v.  W. — 
were  paid  by  a  pubhc  subscrijition  to  which  one  hundrcil  and 
twenty  pei-sons,  includinj;  nmny  stran<;ei-s,  contrihutctl. 

IJy  that  time  he  was  fully  recovering  from  his  i'Jness,  back 
at  C'oniston,  after  a  short  visit  to  Liverpool.  It  was  for- 
bidden to  him  to  attempt  any  exciting  work.  lie  had  given 
up  '  rore  '  and  Oxforil  lecturing,  and  was  devoting  liimsclf 
again  to  ([uiet  studies  for  '  Pro.serpina"  and  '  Deucalion.'  On 
the  lii->t  day  of  the  trial  the  St.  George's  Guild  was  registered 
as  a  Company  ;  on  the  second  day  lie  wrote  to  Miss  Reevcr : — 

'I  have  entirely  resigned  all  hope  of  ever  thanking  you 
rightly  for  bread,  sweet  odours,  roses  and  pearls,  and  must 
just  allow  myself  to  be  feil,  scenteil,  rose-garlanded  and  be- 
pearled,  as  if  I  were  a  poor  little  pet  dog,  or  pet  pig.  Rut 
my  cold  is  better,  and  I  am  getting  on  witli  this  botany;  but 
it  is  really  too  important  a  wt)rk  to  be  pushed  for  a  week  or 
a  fortnight.'  Then  he  goes  into  details  about  the  plans  for 
his  botany,  which  occupied  him  chiefly  for  the  rest  of  the 
autumn. 

Early  in  1879  bis  resignation  of  the  Slade  Professorship 
was  announcetl  ;  followetl  by  what  was  virtually  his  election 
to  an  honorary  doctor's  ilegree  ;  or,  a-s  ollicially  worded — 
'the  Ilelxlomadal  Council  resolvetl  on  June  9,  1879,  to  pro- 
pose to  Convocation  to  confer  the  <legive  of  D.C.L.  honoris 
:aiisa  upon  .John  Riiskin  M.A.,  of  Ch.  Ch.,  at  the  encirnia  of 
that  vear  ;  but  the  proposjd,  though  notilied  in  the  Gazette 
of  June  10,  was  not  submitted  to  vote  owing  to  the  inability 
of  Mr.  Ruskin  to  be  present  at  the  enca'nia.'  The  degree 
»as  lonferred,  in  his  ab>ence,  in  liS9:J. 

He  was  now  more  iix>e  than  ever  to  spend  his  time  in  the 
researches  which  Lad  always  interested  him,  and  which,  he 

•a 


338        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKTN 

somelimes  imagined,  were  his  forte.  Tlie  severe  winter  of 
18TS-9  was  particularly  favourable  for  watchin;^  the  pheno- 
mena of  icicles  and  ice-formation,  and  this  study  connnended 
itself  to  him  in  a  twofold  sense.  On  the  one  hand  it  illus- 
trated the  great  problem  of  crystallisation  in  general,  and  on 
the  other  it  touched  the  question  of  glaciers.  Enough  has 
been  said  (book  iii.,  chap.  3)  to  show  the  attitude  he  had 
taken  for  fifteen  years  pa-st,  as  a  disciple  of  Forbes,  against 
the  ordinary  theory  of  glacial  action,  to  which  he  had  assented 
in  '  IModern  Painters,'  vol.  iv.  But  he  was  now  confirmed  in 
his  views  of  what  he,  and  a  group  of  Forbes'  friends,  con- 
sidered to  be  the  unfair  action  of  Professor  Tvndall,  whose 
contributions  did  not  warrant,  as  they  thouglit,  his  treatment 
of  the  pioneer,  in  this  country,  of  Al])ine  investigations.  jMr. 
Ruskin  did  not  make  the  most  of  his  position  in  the  eyes  of 
the  public  by  inserting  his  remarks  on  Professor  Tyndall, — 
insufficiently  supported  with  argument  and  illustration, — 
among  very  different  kinds  of  matter  in  '  Fors,'  and  by  allow- 
ing himself  to  write  at  moments  when  the  ill-health  of  three 
years  left  him — '  the  greatest  gladiator  of  the  age,'  as  he  ha.s 
been  called — hardly  a  match  for  the  cool  fence  of  his  op- 
ponent. 

But  it  was  his  wish  now  to  go  into  the  subject  again,  in 
'  Deucalion.'  The  following  letter  to  a  friend  at  Chamouni 
(July  !^5th,  1879)  will  show,  at  any  rate,  the  kind  of  method 
upon  which  he  was  intending  to  work,  and  the  extreme  views 
he  had  come  to  take  : — 

'  Yes.  Chamouni  is  as  a  desolated  home  to  me — I  shall 
never,  I  believe,  be  there  more :  I  could  escape  the  riffraff 
in  winter,  and  early  spring;  but  that  the  glaciei-s  should 
have  betrayed  me,  and  their  old  ways  know  them  no  more,  is 
too  much. 

' .  .  .  I  was  gladly  surprised  to  hear  of  your  going  to  the 
aiguille  du  Tour,  if  the  whole  field  round  it  is  still  jnu-e;  but 
all's  so  wrecked  ;  perhaps  it's  all  mud  and  stones  by  this  time. 

'  However,  the  thing  I  want  of  you  is  to  get  as  fiir  up  the 
old  bed  of  the  glacier  dcs  Bois  as  you  can,  and  make  a  good 


DEUCALION'  AND  IMlOSKUriNA  339 

gfrajiliic  sketch  for  iiic  of  anv  hit  of  rock  that  voii  can  find 
uf  tlie  truf  hottom  amoiifr  tlie  dchris.  Gnipliir,  I  say, — as 
o])|>()sih1  to  colouiy  or  slimlowy  ;  sliow  nif  the  edj^es  and  ins 
and  outs,  well — with  any  notes  of  tlie  dii-ection  and  eHect  of 
former  ice  on  it  you  can  make  for  youi-self.  You  know  I 
don't  believe  the  ice  ever  moves  at  the  hottom  of  a  {jiacier  at 
all, — in  a  <;enenil  way,  hut  on  so  steep  a  slope  as  that  of  the 
Hois,  it  may  sonietinies  have  heen  (hiifjfjed  a  little  at  the 
bottom,  a.s  it  is  onlinarilv  at  the  sides.  Anvliow,  sketch  me 
a  hit  of  the  rocks  and  tell  me  how  the  houlilei-s  are  lodged, 
whether  merely  dropped  promiscuously,  or  driven  into  par- 
ticular lines  or  coniei-s. 

'  IMease  give  my  love  to  the  big  old  stone  under  the  Hrcvcn, 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  above  the  village,  unless  they've  blasted  it 
U|)  for  hotels.' 

A  little  later  ho  planned  to  write  a  'Grammar  of  Ice,'  with 
the  sjime  pujiil's  help,  and  he  plunged  into  the  study  of  crys- 
tallisation. Somewhere  at  Ihantwood  there  is  a  deep  drawer 
full  of  material  for  '  Deucalions '  that  never  were  puhlishe<l, 
for  the  storm-cloud  came  down  upon  him  just  as  he  wtu; 
beginning  to  find  his  way  out  of  the  wood. 

Wh.atever  might  have  Iwen  the  value  of  Mr.  lluskin's  work 
on  this  subject  after  the  serious  study  of  his  later  years,  no 
reader  of  his  can  help  regretting  the  ahaniloiunent  of  one 
book  that  he  began.  It  was  to  be  a  manual  of  the  actual 
forms,  the  jihenomenology,  of  native  gold  and  silver  and  other 
minerals  which  crvstallise  into  fronds  and  twigs  and  tangles, 
and  pretty,  j)lant-like  shajK-s,  unregarded  by  the  mathe- 
matician and  ipiite  unexplained  by  the  elementary  laws  of 
crvstallography.  Ilhistnitwl  from  the  beautiful  specimens  in 
his  collection,  with  such  excpiisite  drawings  as  he  matle  of 
these  tiny  still-life  subjects,  it  would  have  been  a  fairy-book 
of  science.  But  the  Mhirtl  Tors '  was  jealous ;  or  perhaps 
'  Proserpine'  and  '  Deucalion '  quarrelled  over  these  flowers  of 
the  underworld,  and  left  them  in  the  babies"  limbo  among 
Uie  things  that  might  have  been. 


CHAPTER  VL 

THE  DIVERSIONS  OF  BKANTWOOD.     (1879-1880.) 

'  In  that  Library  I  pass  away  most  of  the  Days  of  my  Life,  and  most 
of  the  Hours  of  the  Day.  lu  the  Night  I  am  never  there.  There  is 
within  it  a  Cabinet,  handsome  and  neat  enough,  with  a  very  convenient 
Fireplace  for  the  Winter,  and  Windows  thatatford  a  great  deal  of  light, 
and  very  pleasant  Prospects.' — COTTOS'S  Montaiijue. 

SIXTY  years  of  one  of  the  busiest  lives  on  record  were 
beginning  to  tell  upon  Mr.  Kuskin.  He  would  not 
confess  to  old  age,  but  his  recent  illness  had  shaken  him 
severely.  The  next  three  years  were  spent  chiefly  at  Coniston, 
in  comparative  retirement ;  but  neither  in  despair,  nor  idle- 
ness, nor  loneliness.  He  had  always  lived  a  sort  of  dual  life, 
solitary  in  his  thoughts,  but  social  in  his  habits :  liking 
company,  especially  of  yoiuig  people ;  ready,  in  the  intervals 
of  work,  to  enter  into  their  employments  and  amusements, 
and  curiously  able  to  forget  his  cares  in  hours  of  relaxation. 
Sometimes,  when  earnest  admirers  made  the  pilgrimage  to 
their  IVIecca — '  holy  Brantwood '  as  a  scofilng  poet  called  it — 
they  were  surprised,  and  even  shocked,  to  find  the  Prophet  of 
'Fors'at  the  head  of  a  men-y  dinner-table,  and  the  Professor 
of  Art  among  surroundings  which  a  London  or  a  Bo.toii 
'  aesthete '  would  have  i-uled  to  be  in  very  poor  taste. 

Shall  I  take  you  for  a  visit  there, — to  Brantwood  as  it  was 
in  those  old  times .'' 

It  is  a  weary  way  to  Coniston,  whatever  road  you  choose. 
The  inconvenience  of  the  railway  route  was  perhaps  one 
reason  of  Sir.  Ruskin's  prefeience  for  driving,  on  so  many 


TIIK  DIVERSIONS  OF  RRANTWOOD  311 

occasions.  After  dianjjinij  anil  chanfjini^  trains,  and  .stopping; 
ut  nijinv  a  roadside  station,  at  last  yon  see,  suddenly,  over  the 
will!  undulatinj;  conntry,  the  Coniston  Old  Man  and  its 
cra^,  abrupt  on  the  left,  and  the  lake,  lonj;  and  narrow,  on 
the  ri^ht.  Across  the  water,  tiny  in  the  distance  and  (juite 
nione  nnionj^t  forests  and  niooi-s,  there  is  Rrantwood ;  and 
beyond  it  everythinfj  seems  uneidtivated,  uninhabited,  except 
for  one  jjrev  farmhouse  hij;h  on  the  fell,  where  jjaps  in  the 
ra^iretl  larches  show  how  bleak  and  storm-swept  a  spot  it  is. 

To  come  out  of  the  station  after  lon<j  travel,  antl  to  find 
yourself  face  to  face  with  matjniHcent  rocks,  and  white 
cottaj^  nmonu  the  fir-ti-ees,  is  a  surprise  like  walking  for 
the  fii-st  time  down  the  High  Strc-ct  of  Edinburf,di  to  Iloly- 
roiKl.  And  n-s  you  are  whirled  down  thron<j;h  the  strafji^Iinj; 
villajji^  and  alon;;  the  shore  round  the  head  of  tlic  lake,  the 
panorama,  thou'^h  not  Aljiine  in  niaj;iiitude,  is  almost  Alpine 
in  character.  The  valley,  too,  is  not  yet  built  up  ;  it  is  still 
the  olil- flush ioncd  lake  country,  almost  as  it  was  in  tiie  days 
of  the  '  Iteriad';  .still  in  touch  with  the  past.  You  drive  up 
and  down  a  narrow,  hilly  lane,  catching  peeps  of  mountains 
and  sunset  through  thick,  overhanging  trees ;  you  turn  sharp 
up  through  a  gate  uniler  dark  firs  and  larches;  and  the 
carriage  stojjs  in  what  seems  in  the  twilight  a  sort  of  court, — 
a  gravel letl  space,  one  side  formed  by  n  rough  stone  wall 
crownctl  with  laurels  and  almost  precipitous  cop|iice,  the 
brant  (or  steep)  wootl  above,  and  the  rest  is  Brantwood,  with 
a  capital  H.» 

You  ex|)ect  that  Gothic  porch  you  have  read  of  in 
*  Ix'ctui-es  on  Architecture  and  Painting,'  and  you  are  sur- 
prised to  find  a  stucco  classic  portico  in  the  corner,  painted 
and  grained,  and  heaped  arouml  with  lucky  hoi-seshoes, 
brightly  blackleatled,  and  mysterious  rows  of  large  blocks  of 

•  The  urchway  Biipportiiig  a  great  pile  of  new  liiiililincs  diil  not  exist 
m  the  time  when  thi«  visit  is  «uppotie<i  to  be  nimle  Since  that  lime 
new  st.iMcs  ami  greenhoiKiw  also  liiive  Ix-cn  built  ;  but  the  low,  col.ur- 
Wiuihetl  and  evergreeu-cuvered  fruut  reuiaius  u  it  wu*  iii  Mr.  Uiukiu'a 
vorking-daya. 


B42        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

slate  and  basalt  and  trap — a  complete  museum  of  local 
geology,  if  only  you  knew  it — very  unlike  an  ideal  entrance  ; 
still  more  unlike  an  ordinary  one.  While  you  wait  you  can 
see  through  the  glass  door  a  roomy  hall,  lit  with  candles,  and 
hung  with  large  drawings  by  Burne-Jones  and  by  the  master 
of  the  house.  His  soft  hat,  and  thick  gloves,  and  chopper, 
lying  on  the  marble  table,  show  that  he  has  come  in  from  his 
afternoon's  woodcutting. 

But  if  you  are  expected  you  will  hardly  have  time  to  look 
round,  for  Brantwood  is  nothing  if  not  hospitable.  The 
honoured  guest — and  all  guests  are  honoured  there — after 
welcome,  is  ushered  up  a  naiTow  stair,  which  betrays  the 
original  cottage,  into  the  '  tuiTet  room.'  It  had  been  '  the 
Professors'  until  after  his  illness,  and  he  papered  it  with 
naturalistic  pansies,  to  his  own  taste,  and  built  out  at  one 
corner  a  projecting  turret  to  command  the  ^iew  on  all  sides, 
with  windows  strongly  latticed  to  resist  the  storms ;  for 
Ruskin  can  say  with  Montaigne  '  my  House  is  built  upon  an 
Eminence,  as  its  Name  imports,  and  no  part  of  it  is  so  much 
expos'd  to  the  Wind  and  'Weather  as  that.'  There  is  old- 
fashioiieil  solid  comfort  in  the  way  of  furniture  ;  and  pictures, 
— a  Dijrer  engraving,  some  Fronts  and  Turners,  a  couple  of 
old  Venetian  heads,  and  Meissonier's  '  Napoleon,'  over  the  fire- 
place— a  picture  which  Jlr.  Ruskin  bought  for  one  thousand 
guineas,  showed  for  a  time  at  Oxford,  and  hung  up  here  in  a 
shabby  little  frame  to  be  out  of  the  way.*  It  gives  you  a 
curious  sense  of  being  in  quite  a  new  kind  of  place.' 

If  you  are  a  man,  you  are  told  not  to  dress  ;  if  vou  are  a 
lady,  you  may  put  on  your  prettiest  gown.  They  dine  in  the 
new  room,  for  the  old  dining-i-oom  was  so  small  that  one 
could  not  get  round  the  table.  The  new  room  is  spacious 
and  lofty  compared  with  the  rest  of  the  house  ;  it  has  a  long 
window  with  thick  red  sandstone  mullions — thei-e  at  last  is 
a  touch  of  Gothicism — to  look  down  the  lake,  and  a  bay 
window  opens  on  the  narrow  lawn  sloping  steeply  down  to 
the  road  in  fiont,  and  the  view  of  the  Old  Man.  The  walls, 
•  Sold  in  1882  for  5,900  guineas. 


THE  DIVERSIONS  OF  RRANTWOOD         843 

painted  '  ilmk  Ofji^,'  are  hiiiijj  with  old  pictures ;  the  Doge 
tiiitti,  a  bit  saved  fioiii  the  f^reat  Titian  that  was  burnt  in 
the  fire  at  ti>e  Ducd  Palace  in  15T-t;  a  couple  of  Tintorets; 
Turner  ami  Kevnoiiis,  eadi  painted  by  himself  in  youth; 
Raphael  l)y  a  pu|)il,  so  it  is  said  ;  ])ortraits  of  old  ^Ir.  and 
Mi-s.  Ruskin,  and  little  John  and  his  'boo  hills.''  There  he 
sits,  no  lon;,a-r  little,  opposite :  and  you  can  trace  the  same 
curve  and  liroop  of  tiie  eyebrows  |)re(ijj;urctl  in  the  younjif  face 
and  preserveil  in  the  old,  and  a  certain  family  likeness  to  his 
handsome  young  father. 

Since  Mr.  Ruskin's  illness  his  cousin,  Mrs.  Arthur  Severn, 
has  become  moix-  and  more  indispensable  to  him  :  she  sits  at 
the  iiead  of  the  table  and  calls  liim  'the  coz.'  An  eminent 
visitor  was  once  put  gi-eatly  out  of  countenance  by  this 
apparent  iri-everence.  After  obvious  embarrassment,  light 
dawned  upon  him  towards  the  close  of  the  meal.  '  Oh  f  said 
he,  '  it's  "  the  coz  "  you  call  Mr.  iluskin.  I  thought  you  were 
sjiying  "the  cits.ir'' 

There  are  generally  two  or  three  young  people  staying  in 
the  house,  salaried  assistants*  or  amateur,  occasional  hcl|iers ; 
but  though  there  is  a  succession  of  visitoi-s  from  a  distance, 
there  is  not  very  frequent  entertainment  of  neighbours. 

A  Rrantwood  dinner  is  always  ample  ;  there  is  no  a.sceticism 
about  the  j)lace  ;  nor  is  there  any  affectation  of '  intensity ' 
or  of  convei-si\tional  cleverness.     The  neat  things  you  meant 

♦  The  face  mcMt  faniilinr  at  Brantwooil  in  those  times  wan  'Laurie's  ' 
A  »tniiij»e,  bright,  gifted  boy  —  ailiiiiraMe  draiighttiiiian,  ingenious 
■iie^^'hiiniciaD,  mnrvelluiis  actor ;  tlie  iniaginer  of  the  qiiaiute:il  and 
drollest  humours  that  ever  entered  the  head  of  man  ;  devoted  to  boats 
and  lioating,  but  unseltiKhly  reaily  to  share  all  labours  and  contribute 
to  all  divorsions;  paiiminking  and  perfect  in  bis  woik,  and  brilliant  in 
his  wit,— Laurence  Ildlinnl  was  dearly  loved  by  his  friends,  and  is  still 
love<l  by  them  dearly,  lie  was  Mr.  Kiiskin's  chief  secieUiry  at  Braut- 
wood  from  Jan.  1»7(3  to  18)^2,  when  the  death  of  his  father,  and  ill- 
henlth,  led  him  to  resign  the  |>ost.  He  continneil  to  live  at  ConistoD, 
»nd  was  just  beginning  to  l>e  famixis  as  a  [winter  of  still  life  and  land- 
icnpe  when  he  died  of  pleurisy  on  board  a  fiieud's  yacht  iu  the.£geau, 
Apiil  Utb,  lUiiT,  aged  thirty  twa 


S.U        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

to  say  are  forgotten, — you  must  be  hardened  indeed  to  say 
them  to  ]\Ir.  Ruskin's  face  ;  but  if  you  were  shy,  you  soon 
feel  that  there  was  no  need  for  shyness;  you  have  fallen 
among  friends  ;  and  before  dessert  comes  in,  with  fine  old 
sherry — the  pride  of  your  host,  as  he  explains — you  feel  that 
nobody  understands  you  so  well,  and  that  all  his  books  are 
nothing  to  himself. 

It  is  not  a  mere  show,  this  kindliness  and  consideration. 
Two  young  visitors,  once  staying  at  Brantwood  with  Mr. 
Ruskin  alone,  mistook  the  time  and  appeared  an  hour  late 
for  dinner.  Not  a  hint  or  a  sign  was  given  that  might  lead 
them  to  suspect  their  error  ;  their  hungry  host  was  not  only 
patient,  but  as  charming  as  possible.  Only  next  day  they 
learnt  from  the  servants  that  the  dinner  and  the  master  had 
waited  an  hour  for  them. 

They  don't  sit  over  their  wine,  and  smoking  is  not  allowed. 
Mr.  Ruskin  goes  off  to  his  study  after  dinner — it  is  believed 
for  a  nap,  for  he  was  at  work  early  and  has  been  out  all 
the  afternoon.  In  the  drawing-room  you  see  pictures, — water- 
colours  by  Turner  and  Hunt,  drawings  by  Prout  and  Ruskin, 
an  early  Burne- Jones,  a  sketch  in  oil  by  Gainsborough.  The 
furniture  is  the  old  mahogany  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  childhood,  with 
rare  things  interspersed, — like  the  cloisonne  vases  on  the 
mantelpiece. 

Soon  after  nine  Mr.  Ruskin  comes  in  with  an  armful  of 
things  that  are  going  to  the  Sheffield  museum,  and  while  his 
cousin  makes  his  tea  and  salted  toast,  he  ex])lains  his  last 
acquirements  in  minerals  or  missals,  eager  that  you  should 
see  the  interest  of  them  ;  or  displays  the  last  studies  of  Mr. 
Rooke  or  Mr.  Fairfax  Murray,  co[)ies  from  Carjiaccio  or  bits 
of  Gothic  architecture.  (i\Ir.  Ruskin  about  this  time  was 
anxious  to  secure  memorials  of  old  buildings  and  sculpture 
before  'restoration.'  In  1880  he  published  an  appeal  for 
5ubscri|itions  towards  work  in  St.  Mark's,  which  was  being 
restored  ;  but  he  met  with  no  response.  Perhaps,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  public,  Ongania's  great  work  partly  forestalled 
the  necessity.)     Mr.  Ruskin  likes,  you  find,  to  talk  about 


THE  DIVERSIONS  OF  BllANTWOOD         815 

the  imtscum,  then  ncwiv  honoured  by  Prince  Ixjopold's  visit 
(Oitoher  il'.i,  1S79).  lie  tells  you  wliy  lie  put  it  at  Shellield, 
luul  why,  litter  all,  it  is  not  at  Shellielil,  but  so  far  out  of  the 
town — in  order  to  ciitiie  workmen  out  of  the  smoke  to  study 
in  a  i-ountry  retreat,  where  there  will  be  always  pretty  things 
for  them  to  see  nnd  lii^ht  to  read  by.  He  hopes  to  get  it 
filled  with  men  who  will  adil  to  scientific  teaching  the  study 
of  art  ami  nature,  and,  in  short,  to  make  it  'a  working-man''3 
Uoilleian  library.'  He  plans  also  to  join  a  school  to  the 
Huiseum,  where  Shellield  girls  and  boys  may  be  taught  to 
carve  from  the  natural  leaves,  instead  of  the  conventional 
pattern-drawing  which  he  considere  the  fallacy  of  modern 
popular  art-teaching. 

Then,  sitting  in  the  chair  in  which  he  preached  his  baby- 
Bermon,  he  reads  aloud  a  few  chapters  of  Scott  or  Miss 
Edgeworth,  or,  with  judicious  omissions,  one  of  the  older 
novelists;  or  translates,  with  admirable  facility,  a  scene  of 
Scribe  or  George  Sand.  When  his  next  work  comes  out 
you  will  recognise  this  evening's  reading  in  his  allusions  and 
quotations,  perhaps  even  in  the  subjects  of  his  writing,  for  at 
this  time  he  is  busy  on  the  articles  of  'Fiction,  Fair  and  Foul.' 

After  the  reading,  music  ;  a  bit  of  his  own  composition, 
'Old  .Kgina's  Hocks,' or  '  Cockle-hat  and  Stall"';  his  cousin's 
Scotch  ballads  or  Christy  Alitistrel  songs  ;  and  if  you  can  sing 
ft  new  ditty,  fresh  from  London,  now  is  your  chance.  You 
are  surprised  to  see  the  I'rophet  clapping  his  hands  to 
Camptovn  Races,' or  the  'Hundred  Pijjers,' — chorus  given 
»ith  the  whole  strength  of  the  company  ;  but  you  are  ia 
%  house  of  strange  meetings. 

By  about  half-paiit  ten  his  day  is  over;  a  busy  day,  that 
Ijns  left  hin»  tireil  out.  You  will  not  easily  forget  the  way 
lie  lit  his  candle — no  lam|)s  allowed,  and  no  gas — and  gave 
I  last  look  lovingly  at  a  |K't  picture  or  two,  slanting  his 
candlestick  and  shading  the  light  with  his  hand,  before  he 
»-ent  slowlv  up.lairs  to  his  own  little  room,  literally  liiictl 
»ith  the'luruer  drawuigs  you  have  read  about  in  '  ilodern 
['ainten..' 


346        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

You  may  be  waked  by  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  '  Are  you 
looking  out?'  And  pulling  up  the  blind,  there  is  one  of  our 
Coniston  mornings,  with  the  whole  range  of  mountains  in  one 
quiet  glow  above  the  cool  mist  of  the  valley  and  lake. 
Going  down  at  length  on  a  vo^'age  of  exploration,  and  turn- 
ing in  perhaps  at  the  first  door,  you  intrude  upon  '  the 
Professor'  at  work  in  his  study,  half  sitting,  half  kneeling  at 
his  round  table  in  the  bay  window,  with  the  early  cup  of 
coffee,  and  the  cat  in  his  crimson  arm-chair.  There  he  has 
been  working  since  dawn  pei-haps,  or  on  dark  mornings  by 
candlelight.  Like  Montaigne,  he  does  not  pass  the  night  in 
his  study,  but  he  takes  '  to-day '  (his  motto)  by  the  forelock. 
And  he  does  not  seem  to  mind  the  interruption ;  after  a 
welcome  he  asks  j'ou  to  look  round  while  he  finishes  his 
paragraph,  and  %vi-ites  away  composedly. 

A  long,  low  room,  evidently  two  old  cottage-rooms  thrown 
into  one  ;  j^apered  with  a  pattern  specially  copied  from  Marco 
Marziale's  '  Circumcision  '  in  the  National  Gallery  ;  and  hung 
with  Turners.  A  great  early  Turner*  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva 
is  over  \he  fireplace.  You  are  tempted  to  make  a  mental 
inventory.  Polished  steel  fender,  very  unjesthetic ;  curious 
shovel — his  design,  he  will  stop  to  remark,  and  forged  by  the 
village  smith.  Red  mahogany  furniture,  with  startling  shiny 
emerald  leather  chair-cushions  ;  red  carpet  and  green  curtains. 
Most  of  the  room  crowded  with  bookcases  and  cabinets  for 
minerals,  'handsome  and  neat  enough.'  Scales  in  a  glass 
case  ;  heaps  of  mineral  specimens  ;  books  on  the  floor  ;  rolls 
of  diagrams  ;  early  Greek  pots  from  Cj'prus ;  a  great  litter  of 
things  and  yet  not  disorderly  nor  dusty.  'I  don't  under- 
stand,' he  once  said,  'why  you  ladies  are  always  complaining 
about  the  dust ;  my  bookcases  are  never  dusty  !'  The  truth 
being  that,  though  he  rose  early,  the  housemaid  rose  eai-lier. 

Before  you  have  finished  your  inventory  he  breaks  off  work 
to  show  you  a  drawer  or  two  of  minerals,  fairy-land  in  a  cup- 
board ;  or  some  of  his  missals,  King  Hakon's  Bible,  or  the 
original  ^IS.  of  the  Scott  he  was  reading  last  night;  or, 
*  Since  sold,  and  replaced  by  a  deUa  Kobbia  MaduuuA 


THE  Dn-ERSIONS  OF  BRANTAVOOD         847 

opoiiing  a  door  in  a  sort  of  secn'taire,  pulls  out  of  their 
gliiling  cases  frame  after  frame  of  Turners, — the  Bridge  of 
Narni,  the  Falls  of  Terni,  Florence,  or  Home,  and  many 
nioix', — to  hold  in  vour  hand,  and  tiike  to  the  light,  and  look 
into  with  a  lens, — ijuitc  a  diU'erent  thing  from  seeing  pictures 
in  a  gallery. 

At  breakfast,  when  you  see  the  post-bag  brought  in,  you 
undei-stand  why  he  tries  to  get  his  bit  of  writing  done  early. 
The  letters  and  parcels  are  piled  in  the  study,  and  after 
breakfast,  at  which,  as  in  old  times,  he  reads  his  last-wTitten 
pjussjigcs, — how  much  more  interesting  they  will  always  look 
to  vou  in  print ! — after  breakfast  he  is  closeted  with  an 
assistant,  anil  they  work  through  the  heap.  Private  friends, 
known  by  handwriting,  he  puts  aside ;  most  of  the  morning 
will  go  in  answering  them.  Business  he  talks  over,  and  gives 
brief  directions.  But  the  hulk  of  the  corre>spondence  is  from 
stmngei-s  in  all  pai-ts  of  the  world, — admirers'  flattery; 
students' (|ue.stions  ;  begging-letters  for  money,  books,  influ- 
ence, ailvic-e,  autographs,  criticism  on  enclosed  MS.  or  accom- 
panying picture;  remonstrance  or  abuse  from  dissjitislied 
reailei-s,  or  |)eople  who  object  to  his  method  of  publication, 
or  wish  to  convert  him  to  their  own  religion,  whatever  it 
happens  to  be.  And  so  the  heap  is  gradually  olcarcd,  with 
the  help  of  the  waste-paper  basket ;  the  secretary's  work  cut 
out,  his  own  arrangetl ;  and  by  noon  a  long  row  of  letters  and 
envelo|K's  liave  been  set  out  to  dry — Mr.  Uuskin  uses  no 
blotting-p.i]ier,  and,  a.s  he  dislikes  the  vulgar  method  of  fas- 
tening envelopes,  the  sccrctarv's  work  will  be  to  seal  them  all 
with  retl  wax,  and  the  seal  with  the  motto  'To-day'  cut  in 
the  apex  of  a  big  specimen  of  chalcedonv. 

If  you  take,  as  many  do.  an  interest  in  the  minutia:  of 
portrait  painting,  and  think  the  picture  more  finished  for 
its  details,  you  may  notice  that  he  writes  on  the  flat  table, 
not  on  a  tiesk  ;  that  he  uses  a  cork  penholder  and  a  fine 
Bteel  |)en,  though  he  is  not  at  all  a  slave  to  his  tools,  and 
[litters  from  others  rather  in  the  absence  of  the  sine  qua  non 
from  his  conditionfi.     He  can  write  anywhere,  on  anything. 


348        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

with  anything ;  wants  no  pen-wiper,  no  special  form  of  paper, 
or  other  '  fad.'  Much  of  his  worit  is  written  in  bound  note- 
booiis,  especially  when  he  is  abroad,  to  prevent  the  loss  and 
disorder  of  multitudinous  foolscap.  He  generally  makes  a 
rough  syllabus  of  his  subject,  in  addition  to  copious  notes 
and  extracts  from  authorities,  and  then  writes  straight  off; 
not  without  a  noticeable  hesitation  and  revision,  even  in  his 
letters.  His  rough  copy  is  transcri)  ed  by  an  assistant, 
and  he  often  does  not  see  it  again  until  it  is  in  proof.* 
Formerly  he  set  no  store  by  his  ]\ISS.  His  cousin  says  that 
her  early  recollections  of  Denmark  Hill  include  a  vision  of 
crumpled  foolscap  sticking  out  of  the  grate  every  morning  ; 
Mr.  Kuskin's  copy  and  proofs  kept  the  housemaids  in  fire- 
lighting,  until  she  begged  the  interesting  sheets.  But  there 
are  no  important  works  of  Ruskin  complete  in  MS.  as  there 
are  of  Scott;  only  odd  lectures  and  chapters  of  his  later 
writings. 

Printers'"  proofs  are  always  a  trial  to  Mr.  Ruskin,  and  he  is 
glad  to  shift  the  work  on  to  an  assistant's  shoulders,  such  as 
Mr.  Harrison  was,  who  saw  all  his  early  works  through  the 
press.  But  he  is  extremely  particular  about  certain  matters, 
such  as  the  choice  of  type  and  arrangements  of  the  page  ; 
though  his  taste  does  not  coincide  with  that  of  the  leaders  of 
recent  fashions.  Mr.  Jowett  (of  Messrs.  Hazell,  Watson,  & 
Viney,  Limited)  says,  in  HazelVs  Magazine  for  September 
1892,  that  Mr.  Ruskin  made  the  size  of  the  page  a  care- 
ful study,  though  he  adopted  many  varieties.  The  'Fors' 
page  is  different  from,  and  not  so  symmetrical  as  that 
of  the  octavo  '  Works  Series,'  although  both  are  printed  on 
the  same  sized  paper, — medfum  8vo.  Then  there  is  the 
'Knight's  Faith'  and  '  Ulric,'  in  both  of  which  the  t}'pe 
(pica  modern — 'this  delightful  type,'  wrote  Mr.  Ruskin)  and 
the  size  of  the  page  are  different  from  any  other ;  yet  both 
were  his  choice.  The  'Ulric'  page  was  imitated  from  an  old 
edition  of  Miss  Edgeworth.  The  first  proof  he  criticised 
thus, — '  Don't   you   think   a   quarter  inch  off  this  page,  as 

•  In  later  years  he  sometimes  had  his  copy  type-written. 


THE  DIVERSIONS  OF  BRANTWOOD         849 

enclosed,  would  look  better  ?  Tlie  type  is  very  niic.  How 
delicious  a  bit  of  Miss  Edj^cworth's  is,  like  this!'  'Ida'  was 
another  ])!xge  of  his  choice,  and  greatly  a|)j)roved.  His  title 
pages,  too,  were  arranged  with  great  care;  he  used  to  draw 
them  out  in  pen  anil  ink,  indicating  the  size  and  position  of 
the  lines  anil  letters.  He  ohjccteil  to  ornaments  and  to  any- 
thing like  blackness  and  heaviness,  but  he  was  very  particular 
about  proportions  and  spacing,  and  about  the  division  of 
wonts.  Mr.  Jowett  tells  that  in  issuing  '  Ulrie'  in  parts,  the 
word  'stockings'  happened  to  be  divided  ;  'and  thus  •' stock-" 
ended  one  part,  and  "  ings  "  began  the  next !  In  all  my  corre- 
spondence with  him,'  says  Mr.  Jowett,  '  I  never  knew  Mr. 
Jluskin  so  annoyed. — "  Dear  Jowett, — I'm  really  a  little  cross 
with  you — for  once — for  iloing  such  an  absurd  thing  as 
jointing  a  word  betwc>en  the  two  ])arts.  Did  I  really  pass 
Part  II.  with  half  a  word  at  the  end.''''  This  unfortunately 
was  followed  by  many  weeks'  silence,  and  entire  abstinence 
from  any  kind  of  work.  The  Master  had  been  seriously  ill  ! 
The  silence  was  broken  by  the  following : — "  My  dear 
Jowett, — that  unlucky  extra  worry  with  '  Ulric'  was  just  the 
drop  too  much,  which  has  cost  me  a  month's  painful  illness 
again.  .  .  ."' 

Hut  to  return  to  Brantwood  in  1880. 

In  the  morning  everybody  is  busy.  There  are  drawings 
and  diagrams  to  Ix;  made,  MS.  to  copy,  references  to  look  up, 
parcels  to  pack  and  unpack.  Sonjeone  is  told  off'  to  take  you 
round,  and  you  visit  the  various  rooms  and  see  the  treasures, 
inspect  the  outhouse  with  its  workshop  for  caq)entry,  framing 
and  mounting,  casting  leaves  and  nioilelling;  one  work  or 
another  is  sure  to  be  going  on;  jx?rhaps  one  of  the  various 
sculptors  who  have  made  Mr.  Buskin's  bust  is  busy  there. 
Down  at  the  Ixnlgc,  a  miniature  Brantwood,  turret  and  all, 
the  Severn  children  live  when  they  are  at  Coniston.  Then 
there  are  the  garden.s,  terraced  in  the  steep,  rocky  slope,  and 
lome  small  hot-houses,  which  .Mr.  Huskin  thinks  a  superlluity, 
txccpt  that  they  provide  graj)es  for  sick  neighbours. 

Iklow  the  ganlens  a  path  across  a  field  takes  you  to  the 


850        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

harbour,  begun  in  play  by  the  Xenophon  translators  and 
finished  by  the  tillage  mason,  with  its  fleet  of  boats, — chief 
of  them  the  'Jumping  Jenny'  (called  after  Nanty  Ewart's 
boat  in  '  Kedgauntlet '),  Mr.  Ruskin's  own  design  and  special 
private  water-carriage,  which,  you  are  told,  one  day  in  a  big 
storm  he  insisted  on  rowing  by  himself  up  the  lake,  while  all 
the  household  turned  out  on  to  the  terrace  to  watch,  in  real 
terror.  Laurie  can  imitate  the  cook  to  perfection  : — '  Eh, 
dear,  the  Maister's  gone  !  .  .  .  Eh,  now,  look  ye,  there  he  is, 
riding  on  f  white  horses !  Eh,  there,  he's  going ;  he's 
going ;  he's  gone  !'  An  hour  or  so  afterwards  he  walked  in, 
drenched,  but  triumphant  in  the  seaworthy  qualities  of  his 
'Jump.' 

Outside  the  harbour  the  sail-boats  are  moored,  Mr.  Severn's 
LUy  of  Branhcood,  Hilliard's  boat,  and  his  Snail,  an  unfor- 
tunate craft  brought  from  Morecambe  Bay  with  great  expec- 
tations that  were  never  realized  ;  though  Mr.  Ruskin  always 
professed  to  believe  in  her,  as  a  real  sea-boat  (see  '  Harbours 
of  England  ')  such  as  he  used  to  steer  with  his  friend  Huret, 
the  Boulogne  fisherman,  in  the  days  when  he,  too,  was  smitten 
with  sea-fever. 

After  luncheon,  if  letters  are  done,  all  hands  are  piped  to 
the  moor.  With  billhooks  and  choppers  the  party  winds  up 
the  wood  paths,  '  the  Professor '  first,  walking  slowly,  and 
pointing  out  to  you  his  pet  bits  of  rock-cleavage,  or  ivied 
trunk,  or  nest  of  wild-strawberry  plants.  You  see,  perhaps, 
the  ice-house — tunnelled  at  vast  expense  into  the  rock  and 
filled  at  more  expense  with  the  best  ice ;  opened  at  last  with 
great  expectations  and  the  most  charitable  intent — for  it  was 
planned  to  supply  invalids  in  the  neighbourhood  with  ice,  as 
the  hothouses  sujiplied  them  with  grapes ;  and  revealing,  after 
all,  nothing  but  a  puddle  of  dirty  water.  You  see  more  suc- 
cessful works,— the  Professor's  little  private  garden,  which  he 
is  su])posed  to  cultivate  with  his  own  hands  ;  vai'ious  little 
wells  and  watercourses  among  the  rocks,  moss-grown  and  fern- 
embowered  ;  and  so  you  come  out  on  the  moor. 
There  great  works  go  on.      Juniper  is  being  rooted  up; 


THE  DIVERSIONS  OF  BRANTWOOD         851 

bopjry  patches  drainwl  and  cultivated  ;  cranberries  are  being 
planted,  anti  oats  j^iown  ;  ])iiths  enj^ineeix-d  to  the  best  points 
of  view  ;  roiks  bared  to  examine  the  geology, — tiionj^h  you 
cai.not  get  the  Professor  to  ngive  tiiat  every  inih  of  iiis 
territory  lias  been  •^huiatcd.  These  divei-sioiis  have  their 
serious  side,  for  he  is  really  experimenting  on  the  possibility 
of  reclaiming  waste  land  ;  perhaps  too  sanguine,  you  think, 
anti  not  counting  the  cost.  To  which  he  replies  that,  as  long 
as  there  are  hamis  unemployed  and  misemployed,  a  govern- 
ment such  as  he  would  see  need  never  beat  a  loss  for  labourers. 
If  corn  can  be  maile  to  grow  where  junijjcr  grew  before,  the 
benefit  is  a  positive  one,  the  expense  only  comparative.  And 
so  vou  take  vour  pick  with  the  rest,  and  aie  almost  persuaded 
to  become  a  companion  of  St.  George. 

Not  to  tire  a  new-comer,  he  takes  you  away  after  a  while 
to  a  fine  heathery  promontory,  where  you  sit  before  a  most 
glorious  view  of  lake  and  mountains.  This,  he  says,  is  his 
'  Naboth's  vineyard  '  ;•  he  would  like  to  own  so  fine  a  point 
of  vantage.  But  he  is  hajipy  in  his  country  retreat,  far 
happier  than  you  thought  him  ;  and  the  secret  of  his  hap])i- 
ness  is  that  he  has  sympathy  with  all  around  him,  and  heai'ty 
interest  in  everything,  from  the  lea.st  to  the  greatest. 

Coming  down  from  the  moor  after  the  round,  when  you 
reach  the  front  door  you  must  see  the  ])erformance  of  the 
waterfall :  evervbody  must  see  that.  On  the  moor  a  reservoir 
has  been  dug  and  dammed,  with  ingenious  Hood-gates, — Mr. 
Buskin's  device,  of  coui-se, — and  a  channel  led  down  through 
the  wootl  to  a  rustic  bridge  in  the  rock.  Someone  has  stayed 
behind  to  let  out  the  water,  and  down  it  comes ;  first  a  black 
stream  and  then  a  white  one,  as  it  gradually  cleare  ;  and  the 
rockv  wall  at  the  entrance  becomes  for  ten  minutes  a  ca.scadc. 
This  too  has  its  uses ;  not  only  is  there  a  supply  of  water  in 
oii.sc  of  j-re  (the  exact  utilisjition  of  which  is  yet  undecided), 
but  it  illustrates  one  of  his  doctrines  about  the  simplicity  with 
which  works  of  irrigation  could  be  uirried  out  among  the  hilla 
9f  Italy. 

*  Since  then  become  part  of  the  Bniutwood  eatat«L 


352        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

And  so  you  go  in  to  tea  and  chess,  for  he  loves  a  good 
game  of  cliess  with  all  his  heart.  He  loves  many  thing;),  you 
have  found.  He  is  different  from  other  men  you  know,  just 
by  the  breadth  and  vividness  of  his  sympathies,  by  poA'er  of 
living  as  few  other  men  can  live,  in  Admiration,  Hope  and 
Love.  Is  not  such  a  hfe  worth  living,  whatever  its  monu- 
nieat  be  i 


CHAPTER  Ml. 

•FOES '  RESUMED.    (1880-1881.) 

'How  can  he  give  his  neighbour  the  real  ground, 
His  own  conviction  V 

Browning's  KarihUh. 

Rl.TIRKMENT  at  Brantwood,  as  the  reader  may  suspect, 
was  only  partial.  All  Mr.  Uuskiirs  habits  of  life  made 
it  impossible  for  him  to  be  idle,  much  as  he  acknow- 
ledged the  need  of  thoroujjh  rest.  And  he  was  a  man  with  a 
mission.  His  work  was  not  of  the  sort  that  could  be  laid 
aside  and  done  with.  He  could  not  be  wholly  ignorant  of 
the  world  outside  Coniston  ;  though  sometimes  for  weeks 
together  he  trietl  to  ignore  it,  and  refused  to  read  a  news- 
paper. The  time  when  General  Gordon  went  out  to  Khar- 
toum was  one  of  these  periods  of  abstraction,  devoted  to 
medianal  study.  Somebody  talked  one  morning  at  breakfast 
about  the  Souilan.  *  And  who  is  the  .*^oudan  .'''  he  earnestly 
inquired,  connecting  the  name,  as  it  seemed,  with  the  Soldan 
■f  Babylon,  in  crusading  romance. 

'  The  roan  ia  apathetic,  yon  deduce  t 
Cuiilrnriwjge,  he  lnveM  both  oUI  aud  young, 
Able  and  weak,  affects  the  very  brutes 
And  birds—  how  say  I  1  fluwers  of  the  tii'ld— 
As  a  wise  woikniHii  recognises  tools 
III  a  master's  worksliop,  loving  what  they  mak« 
Thus  is  the  innu  as  harmless  as  a  Innib: 
Ouly  iiii|>ntit.-nt,  let  him  do  his  best. 
At  ignorance  and  careleaaneas  and  an.* 


554        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

'Don't  you  know,''  he  wrote  to  a  friend  (January  8th, 
1880),  '  that  I  am  entirely  with  you  in  this  Irish  misery,  and 
have  been  these  thirty  years  ? — only  one  can't  speak  plain 
without  distinctly  becoming  a  leader  of  Revolution  ?  I  know 
that  Revolution  mmt  come  in  all  the  world — but  I  can't  act 
with  Danton  or  Robespieri-e,  nor  with  the  modern  French 
Republican  or  Italian  one.  I  could  with  you  and  your  Irish, 
but  you  are  only  at  the  beginning  of  the  end.  I  have  spoken, 
— and  plainly  too, — for  all  who  have  ears,  and  hear.' 

If  he  had  spoken  plainly  about '  Landlordism,'  as  they  call 
it,  he  had  spoken  plainly  too  on  the  subject  of  Capital. 
Nowadays  every  well-informed  person  knows  that  a  vast 
number  of  influential  thinkers  hold — rightly  or  wrongly — 
that  the  private  exploitation  of  labour  is  an  eiTor,  if  not  a 
crime.  But  even  in  1880,  the  doctrine  of  Collectivism  was 
too  strange,  even  to  educated  people,  to  be  heard  with  any- 
thing but  the  extremest  impatience.  The  author  of '  Fors ' 
had  tried  to  show  that  the  nineteenth-century  commercialist 
spirit  was  not  new  ;  that  the  tyranny  of  capital  was  the  old 
sin  of  usury  over  again ;  and  he  asked  why  preachers  of 
religion  did  not  denounce  it, — why,  for  example,  the  Bi.shop 
of  Manchester  did  not,  on  simply  religious  grounds,  oppose 
the  teaching  of  the  '  Manchester  School,'  who  were  the  chief 
supporters  of  the  commercialist  economy.  Not  until  the  end 
of  1879  had  Dr.  Fraser  been  aware  of  the  challenge;  but  at 
length  he  wrote,  justifying  his  attitude.  The  popular  and 
able  bishop  had  much  to  say  on  the  expediency  of  the  com- 
mercial system  and  the  error  of  taking  the  Bible  literally ; 
but  he  did  not  seem  to  have  any  conce|)tion  of  Mr.  Ilnskin's 
standpoint ;  he  seemed  unaware  of  the  rc\  olution  in 
economical  thought  which  '  Unto  this  Last '  and  '  Fors  '  had 
been  pioneering. 

'  I'm  not  gone  to  Venice  yet,'  -(vi-ote  INIr.  Rii  kin  to  IMiss 
Beever, '  but  thinking  of  it  hourly.  I'm  very  nearly  done 
with  toasting  my  bishop  ;  he  just  wants  another  turn  or  two, 
and  then  a  little  butter.'  The  toasting  and  the  buttering, 
both  neatly  done,  appeared  in  the  Contemporary  Review  for 


«  FORS '  RESUMED  85& 

Fcbnmry  1880;  ifpriiitcd  in  the  'Old  Road'  (vol.  ii., 
pp.  y02-2!38) ;  iind  if  the  reader  have  insight  into  the  course 
of  motlern  thought,  he  will  see  that  Mr.  Ruskin's  rejoinder 
was  much  more  than  a  hit  of  clever  pci-sillage. 

This  incident  led  him  to  feel  that  the  mission  of  '  Fors ' 
WHS  not  linishetl.  If  bishops  were  still  unenlightened,  there 
was  yet  work  to  do.  And  so  he  gave  up  Venice,  and  resumed 
his  crusaile. 

Brantwood  life  wa.s  occa.sionally  intemipted  by  short  ex- 
cursions to  London  or  elsewhere.  In  the  autumn  Mr. 
Ruskin  had  heard  Professor  Huxley  on  the  evolution  of 
reptiles  ;  and  this  suggested  another  treatment  of  the  subject, 
from  his  own  artistic  and  ethical  point  of  view,  in  a  lecture 
oddly  called  'A  Caution  to  Snakes,'  given  at  the  London 
Institution,  March  17th,  1880  (repeatetl  March  23rd,  and 
printed  in  'Deucalion,'  part  vii.).  In  the  course  of  this 
aildress  he  gave  some  notes  of  his  observations  on  the  motion 
of  snakes,  and  claimed  to  be  the  first  to  have  explained  how 
they  ilid  not  creep  or  drag  themselves  along,  hut  travelletl  by 
a  sort  of  skating  action.  Whether  he  was  right  in  believing 
this  to  be  a  discovery  or  no,  it  was  the  result  of  much  watch- 
ing of  the  ways  of  addere  in  fi-eetlom  on  his  moor,  in  addition 
to  study  at  the  Zoological  Gardens,  where  he  used  to  get  the 
auses  opcneil,  to  '  make  friends '  with  the  snakes. 

Mr.  Ruskin  was  not  merely  an  amateur  zoologist  and 
F.Z.S.,  but  a  devoted  lover  and  keen  observer  of  animals.  It 
would  take  long  to  tell  the  story  of  all  his  dogs,  from  the 
spaniel  Dash,  comniemoratcti  in  his  earliest  poems,  and 
Wisie,  whose  sagacity  is  related  in  '  rraterita,"  down  through 
the  long  line  of  bulldogs,  St.  Bernartis,  and  collies,  to 
Bramble,  the  reigning  favourite;  and  all  the  cats  who  mode 
his  study  their  home,  or  were  Hirted  with  abroad.  To  Mis.s 
Becvcr,  from  Bolton  Abbey  (January  iJilh,  1875)  he  describes 
the  \\  harfe  in  flood,  and  then  continues:  '  I  came  home  (to 
the  hotel)  to  (|uiet  tea,  and  a  black  kitten  called  Sweep,  who 
lap|)ed  half  my  cream-jugful  (and  yet  I  had  |>ienty),  sitting 
»n  my  shoulder.'  Grip,  the  pet  rook  at  Denmark  Hill,  is 
'•23— i 


856        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

mentioned  in  '  My  First  Editor,'  as  celebrated  in  verse  by 
Mr.  W.  H.  Harrison. 

Kindness  to  animals  has  often  been  noted  as  one  of  the 
most  striking  traits  of  ]\Ir.  Ruskin, — a  sympathy  with  them 
which  went  much  deeper  than  benevolent  sentiment,  or  the 
curiosit}'  of  science.  He  cared  little  about  their  organisa- 
tion and  anatomy,  much  about  their  habits  and  characters. 
He  had  not  Thoreau's  powers  of  observation  and  intimate 
acquaintance  with  all  the  details  of  wild  life,  but  his  attitude 
towards  animals  and  plants  was  the  same  ;  hating  the  science 
that  murders  to  dissect ;  resigning  his  Professorship  at 
Oxford,  finally,  because  vivisection  was  introduced  into  the 
University ;  and  supporting  the  Society  for  the  Prevention  of 
Cruelty  to  Animals  with  all  his  heart.  But,  as  he  said  at  the 
Annual  Meeting  in  1877,  he  objected  to  the  sentimental 
fiction  and  exaggerated  statements  which  some  of  its  members 
circulated.  '  They  had  endeavoured  to  prevent  cruelty  to 
animals,'  he  said,  '  but  they  had  not  enough  endeavoured  to 
promote  affection  for  animals.  He  trusted  to  the  pets  of 
children  for  their  education,  just  as  much  as  to  their  tutors.' 
It  was  to  carrj-  out  this  idea  (to  anticipate  a  little)  that 
he  founded  the  Society  of  Friends  of  Living  Creatures,  which 
he  addressed,  May  23rd,  1885,  at  the  club,  Bedford  Park,  in 
his  capacity  of — not  president — but  '  papa.'  The  members, 
boys  and  girls  from  seven  to  fifteen,  promised  not  to  kill  nor 
hurt  any  animal  for  sport,  nor  tease  creatures  ;  but  to  make 
friends  of  their  pets  and  watch  their  habits,  and  collect  facts 
about  natural  history. 

I  remember,  on  one  of  the  rambles  at  Coniston  in  the  early 
days,  how  we  found  a  wounded  buzzard, — one  of  the  few 
creatures  of  the  eagle  kind  that  our  English  mountains  still 
breed.  The  rest  of  us  were  not  very  ready  to  go  near  the 
beak  and  talons  of  the  fierce-looking,  and,  as  we  supposed, 
desperate  bird.  Mr.  Ruskin  quietly  took  it  up  in  his  arms, 
felt  it  over  to  find  the  hurt,  and  carried  it,  quite  unresist- 
ingly, out  of  the  way  of  dogs  and  passers-by,  to  a  place  where 
it  might  die  in  sohtude  or  recover  in  safety.     He  often  told 


•FORS'  RESU^tED  857 

l>is  Oxford  hearers  that  he  would  rather  they  learned  to  love 
liinls  than  to  shoot  them  ;  and  his  wood  and  moor  were 
harbours  of  refuLje  for  hunted  game  or  'vermin';  and  liis 
«rindows  the  reiule/vous  of  the  little  birds. 

He  had  not  been  abroail  since  the  spring  of  1877,  and  in 
!\n<;ust  1S80  felt  able  to  travel  again.  He  went  for  a  tour 
imorig  the  northern  French  catiiedrals,  sbiying  at  old  haunts, 
—Abbeville,  Amiens,  Beauvais,  Chartres,  Uouen, — and  then 
■eturnetl  with  Mr.  A.  Severn  and  Mr.  Brabazon  to  Amiens, 
vhere  he  sjient  the  greater  part  of  October.  He  was  writing 
I  new  book — the  '  Bible  of  Amiens ' — which  was  to  be  to  the 
Seven  Lamps  '  what  '  St.  Mark's  Best '  was  to  '  Stones  of 
r'enice.' 

Before  he  returned,  the  secretary  of  the  Chesterfield  Art 
ichool  had  written  to  ask  him  to  address  the  students.  Mr. 
luskin,  tnivelling  without  a  secretary,  and  in  the  flush  of 
lew  work  and  thn)nging  ideas,  put  the  letter  aside  ;  he  carried 
lis  letters  about  in  bundles  in  his  portmanteau,  as  he  said  in 
lis  apology,  '  and  looked  at  them  as  Ulysses  at  the  bags  of 
Kolus.'  Some  wag  hiul  the  im|nidence  to  forge  a  reply, 
fhich  was  actually  read  at  the  meeting  in  spite  of  its  ob- 
iously  fictitious  style  and  statements : — 

♦Haklesden  (!), 

'LoNDOV, 

'  Friday. 
*  Mv  PKAR  Sir, 

'  Vour  letter  reaches  me  here.  Have  just  returned 
commercial  Knglish,  not  Uuskin]  from  \'enice  [where  he  had 
iieant  to  go,  but  did  not  go]  where  I  have  nnninated  (!)  in 
he  pa-sturages  of  ^he  home  of  art  (I);  the  loveliest  and  holie.st 
f  lovely  and  holy  cities,  where  the  very  stones  cry  out,  elo- 
quent in  the  elegancies  of  iambics'  (!!) — and  so  forth. 

However,  it  deceived  the  newspapers,  and  there  was  a  fine 
torm,  which  Mr.  Uuskin  rather  enjoyed.  For  though  the 
jrgery  waa  clumsy  enough,  it  embodied  some  apt  plagiarism 


358        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

from  a  letter  to  the  Mansfield  Art  School  on  a  similar  occa- 
sion.* 

Not  long  before,  a  forgery  of  a  more  serious  kind  had  been 
committed  by  one  of  the  people  connected  with  St.  George's 
Guild,  who  had  put  Mr.  Ruskin's  name  to  cheques.  The 
banU  authorities  were  long  in  tracing  the  crime.  They  even 
sent  a  detective  to  Brantwood  to  watch  one  of  the  assistants, 
who  never  knew — nor  will  ever  know — that  he  was  honoured 
with  such  attentions ;  and  certainly  neither  Mr.  Ruskin  nor 
any  of  his  friends  for  a  moment  believed  him  guilty.  He  had 
sometimes  imitated  Mr.  Ruskin's  hand;  a  dangerous  jest. 
The  real  culprit  was  discovered  at  last,  and  Mr.  Ruskin  had 
to  go  to  London  as  a  witness  for  the  prosecution.  '  Being  in 
very  weak  health,''  the  Times  repoi-t  said  (April  1st,  1879), 
'  he  was  allowed  to  give  evidence  from  the  bench.'  He  had 
told  the  Sheffield  communists  that  '  he  thought  so  strongly  on 
the  subject  of  the  repression  of  crime  that  he  dare  not  give 
expression  to  his  ideas  for  fear  of  being  charged  with  cruelty'; 
but  no  sooner  was  the  prisoner  released  than  he  took  him 
kindly  by  the  hand  and  gave  the  help  needed  to  start  him 
again  in  a  better  career. 

Though  he  did  not  feel  able  to  lecture  to  strangers  at 
Chesterfield,  he  visited  old  friends  at  Eton,  on  November  6th, 
1880,  to  give  an  address  on  Amiens.  P'or  once  he  forgot  his 
MS.,  but  the  lecture  was  no  less  brilliant  and  interesting.  It 
was  practically  the  first  chapter  of  his  new  work,  the  '  Bible 
of  Amiens,' — itself  intended  as  the  first  volume  of  '  Our 
Fathers  have  Told  us  :  Sketches  of  the  History  of  Christendom, 
for  Boys  and  Girls  who  have  been  held  at  its  Fonts.'  The 
di.stinctly  religious  tone  of  the  work  was  noticed  as  marking, 
if  not  a  change,  a  strong  development  of  a  tendency  which 
had  been  strengthening  for  some  time  past.  He  had  come 
out  of  the  phase  of  doubt,  into  acknowledgment  of  the  real 
and  wholesome  influence  of  serious  religion  ;  into  an  attitude 

♦  Printed  as  appeuilix  to  'A  Joy  for  Ever.'  The  Cliestertield  letter 
and  correspondeuce  are  given  in  extenso  in  'Igdrasil'  (voL  i,,  pp.  215, 
216). 


•FORS'  RESUMED  859 

»f  ininil  in  whith,  without  unsaying  anything  he  had  said 
igainst  naiTowncss  of  creed  and  inconsistency  of  practice, 
without  stating  any  definite  doctrine  of  the  after  life,  or 
idopting  any  sectarian  dogma,  he  i-egarded  the  fear  of  God 
ind  the  revelation  of  tlie  Divine  Sjjirit  as  gi-eat  facts,  as 
notives  not  to  be  neglectcii  in  the  study  of  history,  and  the 
groundwork  of  civilisiition  and  the  guide  of  jirogress. 

Early  in  1879  the  Uev.  F.  A.  Mtdleson,  vicar  of  Uroughton, 
lear  Coniston,  had  asked  him  to  write,  for  the  Furness 
Clerical  Society's  Meetings,  a  series  of  letters  on  tlie  Lord's 
'rayer.  In  them  he  dwelt  upon  the  need  of  living  faith  in 
he  Fatherhood  of  God,  and  childlike  obedience  to  the  com- 
nands  of  old-fiishioned  religion  and  morality.  lie  criticised 
he  English  liturgy  as  compared  with  mediaeval  forms  of 
irayer;  and  pressed  upon  his  hearers  the  strongest  warnings 
Igainst  evasion,  or  explaining  away  of  stern  duties  and  siniple 
aiths.  He  concluded  :  '  No  man  more  than  I  has  ever  loved 
he  place  where  (Joil's  honour  dwells,  or  yielded  truer  alle- 
rianc-e  to  the  teaching  of  Ills  evident  servants.  No  man  at 
his  time  grieves  more  for  the  damage  of  the  Church  which 
upposes  him  her  enemy,  while  she  whisj)ers  procrastinating 
joj-  vohhatm  in  answer  to  the  s|)urious  kiss  of  those  who 
vould  fain  toll  curfew  over  the  last  tires  of  English  faith,  and 
vatch  the  sparrow  find  nest  where  she  may  lay  her  young, 
LTOund  the  altars  of  the  I.ord." 

But  if  the  Anglican  Church  refused  him,  Hie  Roman  Church 
vas  eager  to  claim  him.  His  interest  in  niediievalism  seemed 
o  point  him  out  as  ripe  for  convei^sion.  Cardinal  Manning, 
in  old  aciiuaintance,  .showed  him  s[)ecial  attention,  and  in- 
riteti  him  to  charming  ti'te-a-ti'te  luncheons.  It  wa.s  com- 
nonlv  irporteti  that  he  had  gone  over,  or  was  going.  Hut 
wo  le(tei-s  (of  a  later  date)  show  that  he  was  not  to  be 
aught.  To  a  Glasgow  correspouileiit  he  wrote  in  1.SH7:  'I 
hall  be  entirely  grateful  to  you  if  you  will  take  the  trouble 
;o  contradict  any  news  go.ssip  of  this  kind,  which  may  be 
listurbing  the  minds  of  any  of  my  Scottish  friends.  I  was, 
ua,  and  con  be,  only  a  Christian  Catholic  in  the  wide  and 


860        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

eternal  sense.  I  have  been  that  these  five-and-twenty  years 
at  least.  Heaven  keep  me  from  being  k'ss  as  I  grow  older  ! 
But  I  am  no  more  likely  to  become  a  Roman  Catholic  than  a^ 
Quaker,  Evangelical,  or  Turk."  To  another,  next  year,  he 
wTote :  '  I  fear  you  have  scarcely  read  enough  of  "  Fors  "  to 
know  the  breadth  of  my  own  creed  or  coinniunion.  I  gladly 
take  the  bread,  water,  wine,  or  meat  of  the  Lord's  Su])per* 
with  members  of  my  own  family  or  nation  who  obey  Him, 
and  should  be  equally  sure  it  was  His  giving,  if  I  were  myself 
worthy  to  receive  it,  whether  the  intermediate  mortal  hand 
were  the  Pope's,  the  Queen's,  or  a  hedge-side  gipsy's." 

At  Coniston  he  was  on  friendly  terms  with  Father  Gibson, 
the  Roman  Catholic  priest,  and  gave  a  window  to  the  chapel, 
which  several  of  the  Brantwood  household  attended.  But 
though  he  did  not  go  to  Church,  he  contributed  largely  to 
the  increase  of  the  poorly-endowed  curacy,  and  to  the  charities 
of  the  parish.  The  religious  society  of  the  neighbourhood 
was  hardly  of  a  kind  to  attract  him,  unless  among  the  reli- 
gious society  should  be  included  the  Thwaite,  where  lived  the 
survivors  of  a  family  long  settled  at  Coniston, — iMiss  Mary 
Beever,  scientific  and  political ;  and  Miss  Susanna,  who  won 
Mr.  Ruskin's  admiration  and  affection  by  an  interest  akin  to  his 
'jwn  in  nature  and  in  poetry,  and  by  her  love  for  animals,  and 
bright,  unfailing  wit.  Both  ladies  were  examples  of  sincerely 
religious  life,  '  at  once  sources  and  loadstones  of  all  good  to 
the  village,'  sis  he  %vrote  in  the  preface  to  '  Hortus  Inclusus,' 
the  collection  of  his  letters  to  them  since  first  acquaintance 
in  the  autumn  of  1873.  The  elder  Miss  Beever  died  at  an 
advanced  age  on  the  last  day  of  1883 ;  Miss  Susanna  survived 
until  October  29,  1893. 

In  children  he  took  a  warm  and  openly-expressed  interest. 
He  used  to  visit  the  school  often,  and  delighted  to  give  them 
a  treat.  On  January  13th,  1881,  he  gave  a  dinner  to  315 
Coniston  youngsters,  and  the  tone  of  his  adtlress  to  his  young 

*  Compare  the  Hues  in  Longfellow's  '  Golden  Legend': — 
'  A  holy  family,  that  makes 
Each  meal  a  Supper  of  the  Lord,* 


•FOBS'  RESUMED  861 

piKsts  is  notcworthv  as  taken  in  connection  with  tlic  drift  of 
his  i-clii^ioiis  toiulciK-y  (iurintj  tiiis  perio<l.  lie  dwelt  on  a 
verse  of  tlie  Siimiay  School  hymn  they  had  heen  sinj^nw  : 
'  Josu,  here  from  sin  deliver.'  '  That  is  what  we  want,'  he 
said  ;  '  to  he  delivered  from  our  sins.  We  nuist  look  to  the 
Saviour  to  deliver  us  from  our  sin.  It  is  ri<i;ht  we  should  he 
punished  for  tlie  sins  which  we  have  done  ;  hut  God  loves  us, 
and  wishes  to  be  kind  to  us,  antl  to  helj)  us,  that  we  may  not 
■wilfullv  sin.'  Words  like  these  were  not  lightlv  spoken  :  we 
must  take  them,  with  their  full  weight,  to  represent  his  real 
convictions. 

At  this  time  he  used  to  take  the  family  prayers  himself  at 
Brantwood:  preparing  careful  notes  for  a  Bible-reading, 
which  sometimes,  indeed,  lasted  longer  than  was  convenient 
to  the  household ;  and  writing  collects  for  the  occasion,  still 
existing  in  manuscript,  and  deeply  interesting  a.s  the  prayers 
of  a  man  who  had  jiassed  through  so  many  wildernesses  of 
thought  and  doubt,  and  had  returned  iit  last — not  to  the  fold 
of  the  Chuich,  but  to  the  footstool  of  the  Tather. 


T 


CHAPTER  Vm. 

THE  RECALL  TO  OXFORD.     (1882-1883.) 

*Craa  ingens  iterabimus  aequor.' 

Horace. 

HIS  Brantwood  life  came  to  an  end  with  the  end  of 
1881.  Early  in  the  next  year  IVIr.  Ruskin  went  for 
change  of  scene  to  stay  with  the  Severns  at  his  old 
home  on  Heme  Hill.  He  seemed  much  better,  and  ventured 
to  reappear  in  public.  On  March  3rd  he  went  to  the  National 
Gallery  to  sketch  Turner's  Python.  On  the  unfinished  draw- 
ing is  written  :  '  Bothered  away  from  it,  and  never  went  again. 
No  light  to  work  by  in  the  next  month.'  An  artist  in  the 
Gallery  had  been  taking  notes  of  him  for  a  surreptitious 
portrait — an  embarrassing  form  of  flattery. 

He  wrote :  '  No — I  won't  believe  any  stories  about  over- 
work. It's  impossible,  when  one's  in  good  heart  and  at  really 
pleasant  things.  I've  a  lot  of  nice  things  to  do,  but  the  heart 
fails, — after  lunch,  particularly  !'  Heart  and  head  did,  how- 
ever, fail  again  ;  and  another  attack  of  brain  fever  followed. 
Sir  William  Gull  brought  him  through,  and  won  his  praise 
as  a  doctor  and  esteem  as  a  friend.  Mr.  Ruskin  took  it  as 
a  great  compliment  when  Sir  William,  in  acknowledging 
his  fee,  wrote  that  he  should  keep  the  cheque  as  an  auto- 
graph. 

By  Easter  Monday  the  patient  was  better  again,  and 
plunging  into  work  in  spite  of  everybody.  He  wrote :  '  The 
moment  I  got  your  letter  to-day  recommending  me  not  to 


THE  RECALL  TO  OXFORD  863 

vrite  books  (I  (iiii>hc(l  it,  however,  with  great  cnjoynioiit 
>f  tlic  piinii-,  before  proiTi-dinp;  to  act  in  tlelijince  of  th."  rest), 
[  took  out  the  lust  pniof  of  liist  "  Proserpina"  and  workeii  for 
m  hour  and  a  hnlf  on  it;  and  have  been  translating  some 
st.  Heiiediit  niaferirtl  since — with  much  comfort  and  sense  of 
(I'tting — as  I  sjiiii — liead  to  sea  a'^ain — (have  you  seen  the 
uticie  on  nuHltrn  rmklcrs  in  the  Tch-^iriiph?  Anyhow  111 
end  you  a  lot  of  collision  and  other  interesting  sea-subjects 
)y  to-morrow's  post).     This  is  ordv  to  answer  tlie  catechism. 

'  Love  and  congratulations  to  the  boys.  Salute  Tonnny 
or  nie  in  an  afiectionatc — and  apostolic — manner — especially 
ince  he  carried  up  the  lunch  ! — Also,  kindest  regards  to  all 
he  other  servants.  I  daresay  they're  beginning  really  to  miss 
ne  a  little  by  this  time. 

•What  state  are  the  oxaliscs  in — anemones.^  Why  can't 
re  invent  seeing,  insteail  of  talking,  by  telegraph  ? 

'  I've  just  got  a  topiiy.  of  which  these  are  two  contiguous 
)!anes !  (sketch  of  sides  nearly  two  inches  long]  traced  as  it 
ies — and  the  smaller  j)lane  is  bi.ixdincly  iridescent  in  sunshine 
irith  rainbow  colours!  I've  only  found  out  this  in  Easter 
iunday  light.' 

Again :  '  I  was  not  at  all  sure,  myself,  till  yesterday, 
ihcther  I  ifo»//</  go  abroad  ;  also  I  should  have  told  you 
)efore.  Hut  as  you  have  had  the  (sorrowful  ?)  news  broken 
o  you — and  as  I  find  Sir  William  Gull  perfectly  fixed  in  his 
ipiiiion,  I  ol)cy  him,  and  rescne  only  some  liberty  of  choice 
o  myself — respecting,  not  only  climate, — but  the  general 
pjiearance  of  the — inhabitants,  of  the  localities,  where  for 
,nti(|uiirian  or  scientitic  research  I  may  be  induced  to  jjrolong 
iiy  sojourn. — Meantime  I  send  you — to  show  you  I  haven't 
ome  to  town  for  nothing,  my  last  bargain  in  beryls,  with  a 
it  tie  topaz  besides.  .  .  .' 

Hut  the  journey  was  put  off  week  after  week.  There  was 
o  nuuh  to  do.  buying  diamonds  for  Shcfficlil  museum,  and 
ilanning  a  collection  of  models  to  show  the  normal  forms  of 
rjstals,  and  to  illustrate  a  subject  which  he  thought  many 
eople  would  find  interesting,  if  they  could  be  got  over  its 


364        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

first  difficulties.  Not  only  Sheffield  was  to  receive  these  gifts 
and  helps  :  Mr.  Ruskin  had  become  acquainted  with  the  Rev. 
J.  P.  Faunthorpe,  Principal  of  Whitelands  Collenje  for  Pupil 
Teachers,  and  had  given  various  books  and  collections  to 
illustrate  the  artistic  side  of  education.  Now  he  instituted 
there  the  May  Queen  Festival,  in  some  sort  carrying  out  his 
old  suggestion  in  '  Time  and  Tide.'  Mr.  A.  Severn  designed 
a  gold  cross,  and  it  was  presented,  with  a  set  of  volumes  of 
Ruskin's  works,  sumptuously  bound,  to  the  May  Queen  and 
her  maidens.  The  pretty  festival  became  a  popular  feature 
of  the  school,  '  patronised  by  royalty,'  and  Mr.  Ruskin  con- 
tinued his  annual  gift  to  Whitelands,  and  kept  up  a  similar 
institution  at  the  High  School  at  Cork. 

At  last,  in  August,  he  started  for  the  Continent,  and  .stayed 
a  while  at  Avallon  in  central  France,  a  district  new  to  him. 
There  he  met  Mr.  Frank  Randall,  one  of  the  artists  working 
for  St.  George's  Guild,  and  explored  the  scenery  and  anti- 
quities of  a  most  interesting  neighbourhood.  He  drove  over 
the  Jura  in  the  old  style,  revisited  Savoy,  and  after  weeks  of 
bitter  bbe  and  dark  weather,  a  splendid  .sunset  cleared  the 
hills.  He  wrote  to  Miss  Beever  : — '  I  saw  Mont  Blanc  again 
to-day,  unseen  since  1877 ;  and  was  very  thankful.  It  is  a 
sight  that  always  redeems  me  to  what  I  am  capable  of  at  my 
poor  little  best,  and  to  what  loves  and  memories  are  most 
precious  to  me.  So  I  write  to  i/oii,  one  of  the  true  loves  left. 
I'he  snow  has  fallen  fresh  on  the  hills,  and  it  makes  me  feel 
that  I  must  be  soon  seeking  shelter  at  Brantwood  and  the 
Thwaite.' 

But  he  went  forward,  exhilarated  by  the  drive  through 
Savoy  with  a  famous  coachman,  renowned  for  his  whip- 
cracking  and  his  dog  Tom.  He  won  the  Professor's  heart  by 
his  diishing  style  and  kindliness  to  his  beasts;  and  on  p.\rting 
he  gave  the  man  twenty  francs  as  a  bonne  main,  and  two 
francs  over,  as  he  said,  for  a  bonne  patte  to  Tom. 

At  Annecy  he  was  pleased  to  find  the  waiter  at  the  Hotel 
Verdun  remembered  his  visit  twenty  years  before ; — every- 
where he  Diet  old  friends,  and  saw  old  scenes  that  he  had 


THE  RECALL  TO  OXFORD  865 

fcnrccl  he  never  woukl  revisit.  After  crossinfj  the  Cenis  and 
lasteiiing  through  Turin  and  Genoa,  he  reached  Lucca,  to  be 
twaited  at  the  Albergo  Reale  dell'  Universo  by  a  crowd, 
(verv  one  anxious  to  shake  liands  with  Signor  Ruskin.  No 
vondtT  ! — for  instead  of  allowing  himself  to  be  a  mere 
<unil)er-so-and-so  in  a  hotel,  wherever  he  felt  comfortable — 
md  tluit  was  evervwlit-rc  except  at  pretentious  modern  hotels — 
le  nnule  friends  with  the  waiter,  ciiatted  with  the  landlord, 
bund  his  way  into  the  kitchen  to  compliment  the  cook,  and 
brgot  nobody  in  the  establishment, — not  only  in  '  tips,'  but  in 
I  fnink  and  sym|)athetic  address  which  must  have  contrasted 
ruriously,  in  their  minds,  with  the  reserve  and  indiflerence  of 
)thcr  English  tourists. 

At  Florence  he  met  Mr.  Henry  Roderick  Newman,  an 
\merican  artist  who  had  been  at  Coniston  and  was  working 
'or  the  Guild.  He  introiluced  Mr.  Ruskin  to  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Alexander.  In  these  ladies"  home  he  found  his  own  aims,  in 
■eligion,  philanthropy,  and  art,  reali.sed  in  an  unexpected  way. 
Vliss  Alexantlcrs  drawing  at  fii-st  struck  him  by  its  sincerity, 
lie  hail  been  always  the  enemy  of  that  ac(]uired  skill  and 
paraded  cleverness  which  l)ecomes  so  fatiguing  to  the  ex- 
perienced critic.  He  had  always  called  out  for  human  interest, 
the  evidence  of  .sympathy,  the  jioctry  of  feeling,  in  art:  and 
tie  found  this  in  Aliss  Alexander, — not  professionally  learned, 
but  full  of  observation  and  the  tokens  of  affectionate  interest 
in  her  subject.  Not  only  diil  she  draw  iKautifully,  but  she 
ilso  wrote  a  Ix-aiitiful  hainl  ;  and  it  had  been  one  of  his  old 
lavin;^  that  niis.srtl-writing,  rather  than  mis.sal-painting,  was 
the  admirable  thing  in  mctliievalart.  The  legends  illustrated 
by  her  ilrawings  were  collectetl  by  hei>elf,  through  an  intimate 
»ci|uaintance  with  Italians  of  all  clas.«es,  from  the  nobles  to 
the  pejusantry,  whom  she  understood  and  loved,  and  by  whom 
she  was  loved  and  understood.  Ry  such  intercoui-se  she  iiad 
leuniiil  to  look  beneath  the  surface.  In  religious  mattere  her 
Aiuctican  connuonsense  .saw  through  her  neighbours — saw 
the  good  in  them  as  well  as  the  weakness — and  she  was  as 
friendly,  not  only  in  social  intercourse,  but  in  spiritual  things. 


866        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

with  the  worthy  village-priest  as  with  T.  P.  Rossetti,*  the 
leader  of  the  Protestant  '  Piethren,'  whom  she  called  her 
pastor.  And  ]Mr.  Ruskin,  who  had  been  driven  away  fronn 
Protestantism  by  the  poor  Waldensian  at  Turin,  and  had 
wandered  through  many  realms  of  doubt  and  voyaged  through 
strange  seas  of  thought,  alone,  found  harbour  at  last  with  the 
disciple  of  a  modern  evangelist,  the  frequenter  of  the  little 
meeting-house  of  outcast  Italian  Protestants. 

Ruskin's  art-criticism  fought  its  way  to  the  front  long  ago. 
His  economy  is  now  widely  accepted.  His  religious  teaching 
has  hardly  been  listened  to.  That  must  wait  until  the  nine- 
teenth century — as  he  put  it  in  1845 — 'has,  I  cannot  say 
breathed,  but  steamed  its  last.' 

One  evening  before  dinner  he  brought  back  to  the  hotel  at 
Florence  a  drawing  of  a  lovely  girl  lying  dead  in  the  sunset ; 
and  a  little  note-book.  '  I  want  you  to  look  over  this,'  he 
said,  in  the  way,  but  not  quite  in  the  tone,  with  which  the 
usual  MS.  '  submitted  for  criticism  '  was  tossed  to  a  secretary 
to  taste.  It  was  '  The  True  Story  of  Ida ;  written  by  her 
Friend.'f 

An  appointment  to  meet  Mr.  E.  R.  Robson,  who  was 
making  plans  for  an  intended  Sheffield  museum,  took  Mr. 
Ruskin  back  to  Lucca,  to  discuss  Romanesque  mouldings  and 
marble  facings.  Mr.  Charles  Fairfax  Mun-ay  also  met  Mr. 
Ruskin  at  Lucca  with  drawings  commissioned  for  St.  George's 
Guild.  But  he  soon  returned  to  his  new  friends,  and  did  not 
leave  Florence  finally  until  he  had  purchased  the  wonderful 
collection  of  110  drawings,  with  beautifully  wi-itten  text,  in 

♦  A  cousin  of  the  artist,  and  in  his  way  no  less  remarkable  a  man. 
It  is  hardly  too  much  to  say  that  he  did  for  evangelical  reli^^ion  iu  Italy 
what  G  .hi  iel  Rossetti  did  for  poetical  art  iu  England  :  he  showed  the 
way  to  sincerity  and  simplicity,  A  short  account  of  his  life  is  given  iu 
'  D.  G.  R  .ssetti,  his  family  lettei-s,'  vol.  i.,  p.  34.  The  circmn.-ta  iC"-(  of 
his  death  are  toichingly  related  by  Miss  Alexander  in  'Christ's  Folk  iu 
Jhe  Apenuine,'  edited  by  Mr.  Ruskin. 

t  This  title  was  altered  by  Mr.  Rnskin  to  'The  Story  of  Ida. 
Epitaph  on  an  Etrurian  Tomb.    By  Francesca.' 


THE  RECALL  TO  OXFORD  8G7 

which  Miss  Alexander  hod  enshrined  '  The  Roadside  Songs  of 
Tuscany.' 

Returning  homewards  hy  the  Mont  Cenis  he  stnycd  a  while 
at  Tiilloircs,a  tuvourite  haunt,  extremely  content  to  be  amonjj 
romantic  scenery,  and  able  to  work  steadily  at  a  new  edition 
of  his  books  in  a  much  cheaper  form,  of  which  the  first 
volumes  were  at  this  time  in  hand.  He  had  been  making 
further  studies,  also,  in  history  and  Alpine  gcolojjy ;  but  at 
last  the  snow  drove  him  away  from  the  mountains.  So  he 
handed  over  the  geology  to  his  assistant,  who  com|)i!ed  'The 
Limestone  Alps  of  Savoy  '  (supplementary  to  'Deucalion') 
'o-s  he  could,  not  as  he  would,"  while  Mr.  Ruskin  wrote  out 
the  new  ideas  suggested  by  his  visit  to  Citcaux  and  St. 
Bernard's  birthplace.  These  notes  he  completed  on  the 
journey  home,  and  gave  as  a  lecture  on  '  Cisteixian  Architec- 
ture' (London  Institution,  December  4th,  1882),  in  place  of 
the  previouslv  ailvurtiscd  lecture  on  crystallography. 

He  seemed  now  to  have  quite  recovered  his  health,  and  to 
be  rc:idy  for  re-entry  into  public  life.  What  was  more, 
he  had  many  new  things  to  say.  The  attacks  of  brain  fever 
had  passctl  over  him  like  passing  storms,  leaving  a  clear  sky. 

After  his  retirement  from  the  Oxfoi-d  Profe.ssoi-ship,  a  sub- 
scription had  been  opened  for  a  bust  by  Sir  Edgar  JJoehm,  in 
memorial  of  a  University  benefactor;  and  the  clay  model 
(now  in  the  Shedield  Museum)  was  placetl  in  the  Drawing 
School  pending  the  collection  of  the  necessary  i  ^iiO.  The 
OjJ'ord  L'nhcrsUy  Herald,  in  its  article  of  June  5th,  1880, 
no  doubt  expressctl  the  general  feeling,  or  at  any  rate  the 
feeling  of  the  clerical  party,  then  still  in  the  majority,  in  its 
pn\ise  as  well  as  in  its  criticism  of  Professor  Ruskin.  He 
iiimself  claimed  to  have  '  harked  back'  to  old  standards  of 
thought,  in  opposition  to  contemporary  religious  and  scientific 
enlightenment ;  and  the  reader,  who  has  followetl  his  course 
thus  far,  nuist  judge  his  judges  from  a  higher  and  more 
panoramic  standpoint  than  perha|)s  wa.s  possible  to  them. 
But  after  reciting  his  bcncfactioDs  to  the  University  with 
becoming  a]»prcciation,  the  Herald  continued  • — 


868        LU'TE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

'  Mr.  Ruskin  has  enjoyed  renown  and  felt  the  breath  of 
high  reputation  in  every  possible  form,  in  the  highest  possible 
perfection,  and  with  the  highest  desert.  He  has  been  famous 
while  young,  which  is  proverbially  a  thing  for  gods  :  he  has 
been  one  of  the  best  abused  men  in  England ;  he  has  been 
one  of  the  best  praised,  and  that  in  all  forms — critically  and 
passionately,  wisely  and  fanatically — for  his  nierits  and  for 
his  frailties.  He  has  been  an  acknowledged  chief  among  the 
chiefs  of  literature;  he  has  been  adored  by  girls  and  under- 
graduates ;  a  large  circle  of  friends  has  partly  understood  him, 
and  still  regards  him  with  genuine  admiration  and  affection  ; 
he  has  laboured  hard  for  labouring  men,  and  dispersed  abroad 
and  given  to  the  poor  for  mora  than  fifty  years  of  his  life. 
His  name  and  his  work  are  indissolubly  connected  with 
Oxford,  and  it  is  a  great  pity  he  ever  left  us.  He  has  of 
com-se  suffered  from  his  own  powers,  as  all  men,  being  human, 
must  suffer.  The  intensity  of  his  own  pcrce{)tions  always 
gave  him  difficulty  in  receiving  any  knowledge  from  others, 
and  it  has  taken  the  form  of  subjectivity  or  egotism.  He  is 
unable  to  endure  authority  on  any  subject,  or  even  to  accept 
testimony.  His  life  has  been  spoiled  by  his  continual  attempts 
to  substitute  a  Christianity  of  his  own  for  the  Church  of 
England  ;  he  has  his  own  political  economy ;  he  has  systema- 
tised  an  excellent  botany  of  his  own,  a  mineralogy  of  his  own, 
a  geology  of  his  own,  he  has  driven  himself  frantic  by  con- 
ducting a  magazine  of  his  own ;  he  has  separated  himself 
from  everybody  whose  mind  is  not  a  minute  cojiy  of  his 
own. 

'  AVe  know  not  what  might  have  been  the  result  if,  during 
his  residence  here.  Professor  Ruskin  had  had  the  symjiathy  or 
genuine  interest  of  men  of  his  own  age  engaged  in  the  work 
of  the  Uni\ersity,  or  if  Art  had  been  admitted  to  be  a  part 
of  that  work.  But  in  any  case  he  has  done  Oxford  great 
honour,  and  made  great  sacrifices  for  her,  and  it  is  time  that 
some  acknowledgment  should  be  made  to  the  foremost  name 
in  modern  English  literature  strictly  so  called  :  to  an  Oxonian 
who   has   attempted   and   achieved   beyond   others ;   to   the 


THE  RECALL  TO  OXFORD  869 

kindest  hcnrt  and  kconest  benevolence  in  Enfjlnnd  ;  to  the 
poet,  jwinter,  anil  interpreter  of  the  Word  of  God  in 
Nature,  who  is  best  worthy  to  succeed  Wordsworth  and 
Turner.' 

It  was  natural,  therefore,  that  on  recoverinpf  his  health  he 
shoulil  ix'sunie  his  post.  Professor  W.  1).  Uiiiiinond,  the  son 
of  Ills  old  frienil  Mr.  George  Richmond,  gracelully  rutiivd, 
and  the  Orfhrd  L'nhrrsity  Ga~cltc  of  January  KJth,  1883, 
announcetl  the  re-election.  On  March  J2nd  he  wrote  that  he 
was  '  up  the  Old  Man  yesterday ';  as  much  as  to  say  that  he 
defied  catechism,  now,  about  his  health ;  and  a  week  later  he 
gave  his  lii>t  lecture.  The  .SV.  Jmnixs  BuJgtt  of  March  16th 
gave  an  account  of  it  in  these  terms : — 

'  Mr.  lluskin's  lirst  lecture  at  Oxfor<l  attracted  so  large  an 
audience  that,  half  an  hour  before  the  time  fixed  for  its 
delivery,  a  givater  number  of  pei-sons  were  collected  about 
the  doors  than  the  lecture-room  could  hold.  Inuuediately 
after  the  doors  were  ojiened  the  room  was  so  densely 
packed  that  some  undergraduates  found  it  convenient  to 
climb  into  the  windows  and  on  to  the  cujiboards.  'ITie 
aiulicnce  was  composed  almost  equally  of  undergraduates 
and  lailies  ;  with  the  exception  of  the  vice-chancellor,  heads 
of  houses,  fellows,  £uul  tutors  were  chiefly  conspicuous  by 
their  absence. 

'  It  is,  no  doubt,  difTicult  to  know  what  should  be  the  plan 
of  a  lecture  before  such  an  audience.  Mr.  Hu>kin's,  if  some- 
what unconnected,  was  at  any  rate  inleivsting.  He  carried 
his  audienc-e  with  him  to  the  end,  as  well  in  his  lighter  as  in 
his  more  impassioned  periods.  Perhaps  the  most  interesting 
par*  of  his  lecture  was  the  lioginning,  in  which  he  spoke  of 
the  lute  Mr.  Ros.setti,  and  compaixtl  his  work  with  that  of 
Holnian  Hunt.' — I  omit  an  abstract  of  the  lecture,  wlnili  can 
be  read  in  full  in  the  '  Art  of  England.'  The  reporter  con- 
tinued :  '  He  had  made  some  discoveries:  two  lads  and  two 
lo^cs,  who,  though  not  artists,*  could  draw  in  a  way  to 
♦  'Though  not  artista'  wm  n  »lip  on  the  reporter's  part,  and  contra- 
iictetl  by  the  aubaeqaeut  '  two  jrouog  Italiiin  artiata.'  The  reference 
M 


870        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

please  even  him.  He  used  to  say  that,  except  in  a  pretty 
graceful  way,  no  woman  can  draw  ;  he  had  now  almost  come 
to  think  that  no  one  else  can.  (This  statement  the  under- 
graduates received  with  gallant,  if  undiscriminating,  applause.) 
To  inanv  of  his  prejudices,  Mr.  Rusk  in  said,  in  the  last  few 
yeai-s  the  axe  had  been  laid.  He  had  positively  found  an 
American,  a  young  ladv,  whose  life  and  drawing  were  in 
every  way  admirable.  (Again  great  and  generous  applause 
on  the  part  of  the  undergraduates,  stimulated,  no  doubt,  by 
the  knowledge  that  there  were  then  in  the  room  two  fair 
Americans,  who  have  lately  graced  Oxford  by  their  presence.) 
At  the  end  of  his  lecture  Mr.  Ruskin  committed  himself  to  a 
somewhat  perilous  statement.  He  had  found  two  young 
Italian  artists  in  whom  the  true  spii-it  of  old  Italian  art  had 
yet  lived.  No  hand  like  theirs  had  been  put  to  paper  since 
Lippi  and  Leonardo. 

'  Mr.  Ruskin  concluded  by  showing  two  sketches  of  his 
own,  harmonious  in  colour,  and  faithful  and  tender  in  touch, 
of  Italian  architecture,  taken  from  the  Duomo  of  Lucca,  to 
show  that  though  he  was  growing  older  his  hand  had  not  lost 
its  steadiness.  And  so  he  concluded  a  lecture  which,  though 
it  seemed  to  lack  some  guiding  principle,  yet  carried  the 
audience  with  it  throughout,  and  seemed  all  too  short  to 
those  who  were  fortunate  enough  to  hear  it.' 

Three  more  lectures  of  the  coui-se  were  given  in  May,  and 
each  repeated  to  a  second  audience.  Coming  to  London, 
Mr.  Ruskin  gave  a  private  lecture  on  June  5th  to  some  two 
hundred  hearers  at  the  house  of  Mrs.  W.  H.  Bishop,  in  Ken- 
sington, on  Miss  Kate  Greenaway  and  Miss  Alexander.  '  I 
have  never,  until  to-day,'  he  said,  'dared  to  call  my  friends 
and  my  neighboui-s  together  to  rejoice  with  me  over  any 
recovered  good  or  rekindled  hope.  Both  in  fear  and  much 
thankfulness  I  have  done  so  now ;  yet,  not  to  tell  you  of  any 
poor  little  piece  of  upgathered  silver  of  my  own,  but  to  show 


was   to  Misses   Alcxauder   and   Greeuaway,   aud   Mes&rs.   Boui  and 
Aiessandi'L 


THE  RECALL  TO  OXFORD  371 

you  the  fine  gold  which  has  been  strangely  trusted  to  nie, 
anil  which  before  was  a  treasure  .hid  in  a  mountain  fielil  of 
Tusiany.'  The  S/mtatnr  shareil  his  enthusiasm  for  tlie  pen 
Riul  ink  (h'awings  of  Miss  Alexaiuler's  '  Roadside  Songs  of 
Tuscany,'  and  conchidiHi  a  glowing  account  of  the  lecture  by 
sjiying:  'All  Professor  Ruskin's  friends  must  be  glad  to  see 
how  well  his  Oxford  work  has  agrcetl  with  him.  He  has  gifts 
of  insigiit  and  |>ower  of  reaching  the  best  feelings  and  highest 
hopes  of  our  too  indifl'erent  generation  which  are  very  rare. 
Agree  or  disagi-ee  with  some  of  his  doctrines  as  we  may, 
he  constrains  the  least  hopeful  of  his  listenere  to  remember 
that  man  is  not  yet  bereft  of  that  "breath  of  life"  which 
enables  him  to  live  in  spiritual  places  that  are  not  yet 
altogether  depopulated  by  the  menacing  army  of  physical 
discoverers.' 

With  much  encouragement  in  his  work,  he  returned  to 
Brantwood  for  the  summer,  and  resolved  upon  another  visit 
to  Savoy  for  more  geology,  and  another  breath  of  health- 
giving  Al|)ine  air.  Rut  he  found  time  only  for  a  short  tour 
in  Scotlanil  before  returning  to  Oxford  to  complete  the  series 
of  lectures  on  Recent  English  Art.  During  this  term  he  was 
prevailed  upon  to  allow  himself  to  be  nominated  a-s  a  candi- 
date for  the  Rectoi>hip  of  the  University  of  GliLsgow.  He 
hatl  been  asked  to  stand  in  the  Conservative  interest  in  1880, 
and  he  had  been  worried  into  a  rather  rough  reply  to  the 
Liberal  partv,  when  after  some  correspondence  thev  asked 
him  whether  he  sympathised  with  Lt)rd  Rcaconslield  or 
Mr.  01  ulstone.  MVhat,  in  the  devil's  name,' he  exclaimed, 
'  have  i/ou  to  do  with  either  Mr.  D'Israeli  or  Mr.  Gladstone? 
Vou  are  students  at  the  University,  and  have  no  more'  busi- 
ness with  politics  than  you  have  with  rat-catching.  Had  you 
ever  read  ten  wordj  of  n>ine  with  understanding,  you  would 
liave  known  that  I  care  no  more  either  for  Mr.  D'Israeli  or 
Mr.  Gladstone  than  for  two  old  bagpipes  with  the  drones 
loing  by  steam,  i)ut  that  I  hate  all  Liberalism  as  I  do  Ueel/e- 
aub,  anil  that,  with  Carlyle,  I  stand,  we  two  alone  now  in 
England,  for  God  and  tlie  Queen.'  After  that,  though  he 
24-2 


872        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

mit;ht  explain*  that  he  never,  under  any  conditions  of  provo- 
cation or  haste,  would  have  said  that  he  hated  Liberalism 
as  he  did  Mammon,  or  Belial,  or  Moloch  ;  that  he  'those  the 
milder  fiend  of  Ekron  as  the  true  exponent  and  patron  of 
Liberty,  the  God  of  Flies,"  still  the  matter-of-fact  Glaswegians 
were  minded  to  give  the  scoffer  a  wide  berth.  He  was  put 
up  as  an  independent  candidate  in  the  three-cornered  duel ; 
and,  as  such  candidates  usually  fare,  he  fared  badly.  The 
only  wonder  is  that  three  hundred  and  nineteen  students  were 
found  to  vote  for  him,  instead  of  siding,  in  political  ortho- 
doxy, with  Mr.  Fawcett  or  the  Marquis  of  Bute. 

At  last  a  busv  and  eventful  vear  came  to  a  close  at 
Coniston,  with  a  lecture  at  the  village  Institute  on  his  old 
friend  Sir  Herbert  Edwardes  (December  22nd),  and  in 
kindly  intercourse  with  young  friends  in  his  mountain  home 
and  theirs.  His  interest  in  the  school  and  the  school- 
children was  unabated,  and  he  was  always  planning  new 
treats  for  them,  or  new  helps  to  their  lessons.  He  had  set 
one  of  the  assistants  to  make  a  large  hollow  globe,  inside  of 
which  one  could  sit  and  see  the  stars  as  luminous  points 
pricked  through  the  mimic  '  vault  of  heaven,'  painted  blue 
and  figured  with  the  constellations.  By  a  simple  arrangement 
of  cogs  and  rollers  the  globe  revolved,  the  stai-s  rose  and  set, 
and  the  position  of  any  star  at  any  hour  of  the  year  could  be 
roughly  fixed.  But  the  inclement  climate  of  Coniston,  and 
the  natural  roughness  of  children,  soon  wrecked  the  new  tov. 

About  this  time  he  was  anxious  to  get  the  village  children 
taught  music  with  more  accuracy  of  tune  and  time  than  the 
oi-dinary  singing-lessons  enforced.  He  made  many  experi- 
ments with  different  simple  instruments,  and  fixeil  at  hxst 
upon  a  set  of  bells,  which  he  wanted  to  introduce  into  the 
school.  But  it  was  difficult  to  interfere  with  the  routine 
of  studies  prescribed  by  the  code  ;  and  I\Ir.  Buskin's  theories 
of  education  i  ould  have  been  earned  out  onlv  in  a  completely 
indcjHiiilent  school.  Considering,  too,  that  he  scorned  '  the 
thiee  ll's,''  a  school  after  his  own  heart  would  have  been  a 
*  Epilogue  to  '  Arrows  of  the  Chace.' 


THE  UEC.VLL  TO  OXFORD  373 

very  difTcrcnt  plac-e  from  any  that  earns  the  Govemniont 
grant ;  and  lie  very  stronjjiy  believi.'d  that  if  a  villai;e  cliild 
learnt  the  rudiments  of  relii^ion  and  morality,  sound  rules  of 
health  anil  maimers,  anil  a  habit  of  usinp;  its  eves  anil  ears  in 
the  practice  of  some  ^ooil  haiuliirafl  or  art  and  simple  music, 
and  in  natural  philosophy,  tau;;ht  by  object  lessons — then 
book-learning  woulil  either  come  of  itself,  or  be  passed  aside 
as  unneccssju'V  or  superlluous.  This  was  his  motive  in  a 
well-known  incident  which  has  sometimes  puz/led  his  public. 
Once,  when  new  buililin<j;s  were  goinjj  on,  the  mason  wanteil 
an  advance  of  money,  which  Mr.  llnskin  gave  him,  and  then 
held  out  the  j)apcr  for  him  to  sign  the  i-ecei|)t.  'A  great 
deal  of  hesitation  and  embarrassment  ensued,  somewhat  to 
Mr.  Uuskin's  surprise,  as  he  knows  a  north-countryman  a 
great  deal  too  well  to  expect  euibarra-isment  from  him.  At 
last  the  man  sjiid,  in  dialect:  "Ah  nuin  put  ma  n>ark  !"  He 
could  not  write.  Jlr.  Kuskin  rose  at  once,  stretched  out 
both  hanils  to  the  astonished  rustic,  with  the  words  :  "  I  am 
proud  to  know  you.  Now  I  understand  why  you  are  such  an 
entirely  good  workman."''* 

I'nlike  Worilsworth,  who  wrote  about  the  peasantry  with- 
out much  direct  intercourse  with  them  (after  his  school-days), 
Mr.  Ruskin  was  fond  of  visiting  his  neighbours  in  their 
homes  and  took  a  very  genuine  interest  in  their  lives  and 
aff'aii-s.  Many  of  them  who  knew  little  or  nothing  about  hh 
life  and  aflairs,  and  were  puzzled  at  (ii-st  by  his  manner — so 
dillcrent  from  anything  they  had  known — i-ame  at  last  to 
regard  him  as  a  real  friend  ;  to  some  of  them  he  wjis  as  much 
of  a  hero  as  he  was  to  the  undergraduates  at  Oxford.  At 
first  they  asked  'What  is  he.''  where  iloes  he  come  from.'' 
with  the  northern  distrust  of  a  stranger.  They  found  out 
that  '  he  stoodied  a  deal,"  and  that  accounted  for  everything: 
and  by  anil -by  one  heard  here  and  there  a  phrase  that 
meant  more  than  much  newspaper  eulogy :  '  Eh !  he's  a 
grand  chap,  is  Muisthcr  Rooskin  T 

*  From  uu  ulicle  bjr  Mina  W'akctielJ  ia  2Iurrai/'»  Majazine,  Nut< 
189a 


CHAFTER  EX. 

THE  STORM-CLOUD.     (1884-1388.) 

'  Ther  saiigh  I  suche  tempeste  aryse 
That  every  herte  myght  agryse 
To  see  byt  peynted  on  the  walle.' 

Chadcer,  House  of  Fame, 

'  /^F  course  I  needn't  wish  you  a  happy  Christmas,'  wrote 
VJ  Professor  Ruskin  (December  24th,  1883),  '  Til  wish 
you — what  it  seems  to  me  most  of  us  more  need,  and 
particularly  my  poor  self — a  wise  one !  When  are  you 
coming — in  search  of  wisdom  of  course — to  see  me  ?  I  ought 
to  call  first,  oughtn't  I  ?  but  I  don't  feel  able  for  long  days 
out  just  now.  Could  you  lock  up  house  for  a  couple  of  days 
over  there,  and  come  and  stay  with  me  over  here  ?  It  seems 
to  me  as  if  it  would  be  rather  nice.  The  house  is — as  quiet 
as  you  please.  I'd  lock  you  both  out  of  my  study,  and  you 
might  really  play  hide-and-seek  in  the. passages  about  the 
nursery  all  day  long.     Will  you  come  ?' 

His  great  improvement  in  health  had  seemed  to  justify  his 
two  chief  assistants  in  feeling  that  their  constant  attendance 
was  no  longer  necessary  to  him.  One  set  up  house  at  Coniston, 
the  other  not  far  away,  both  ready  to  give  what  help  was 
called  for;  while  the  main  business-correspondence  was  under- 
taken by  Miss  S.  D.  Anderson.  During  the  Severns'  absence 
Miss  Anderson  also  was  away  for  a  holiday  ;  and  the  loneli- 
ness, though  only  temporary,  was  tedious  to  him,  and  not 
good  for  him.  He  was  not  very  well :  put  oft'  the  visitors, 
and  wrote  again :  '  I'm  better,  and  hope  to  be  presentable  on 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  875 

Moii(?ny. — Fm  scndinjj  tlic  carriage  for  yoti.  I  wondor  if  tha 
niodil*  couitl  come  on  the  top  of  it  ?  I've  pot  some  very 
intercstint;  junctions  of  sdiist  and  granite  from  Skidduw, 
Hiul  a  crystal  or  two  for  you  to  see.' 

'  i  lin  :    '  Mind,   you're    both    due    on    Monday.      Such 
!>  !     Such  brushes  !     Such — everytliing  waiting  !' 

i  lie  truant,  recaptured,  was  soon  set  to  work  witli  Messrs. 
Newman's  extra-luminous  water-colours,  sj)ecially  j)rc|>ared 
for  the  great  diagrams  of  sunsets  to  illustrate  the  lecture, 
shortly  to  be  given,  on  'The  Storm  Cloud  of  tlie  Nineteenth 
Century.' 

It  had  been  a  favourite  subject  of  study  with  the  author  of 
'Moilern  Painters.'  His  journals  for  fifty  years  past  had 
kc|)t  careful  account  of  the  weather,  and  eH'ects  of  cloud. 
He  liad  noticcnl  since  1871  a  prevalence  of  chilly,  dark  bhc,  as 
it  woulil  be  called  in  France;  but  did'crcnt  in  its  |)henonK'na 
from  anything  of  his  earlier  days.  The  '  j)lague  wind,'  so  he 
nametl  it — tremulous,  intermittent,  blighting  grass  and  trees 
— blew  from  no  fixed  point  of  the  com|)ass,  but  always 
brought  the  same  dirty  sky  in  j)lace  of  the  healthy  rain-cloud 
of  normal  summers;  and  the  verv  thunder-storms  seemed  to 
be  altered  by  its  influence  into  foul  anil  powerless  abortions 
of  tempest.  Landscape  painting,  under  its  lurid  light  which 
blanchtHl  the  sun  instead  of  reddening  it,  seemed  to  be 
deteriorating  by  the  mere  physical  impos.sibility  of  seeing  and 
stuilying  the  blue  skies  of  his  youth.  Nature  and  Art  seemtnl 
to  be  suffering  together — the  times  were  out  of  joint ;  and 
these  were  but  signs  and  warnings  of  a  more  .serious  gloonu 
I'or,  feeling  as  he  ditl  the  weight  of  human  wrong  against 
which  it  wiw  his  nii.v-ion  to  prophesy,  believing  in  a  Divine 
government  of  the  world  in  all  its  literalness,  he  had  the 
courage  to  ajipcar  before  a  Lontlon  audienc-e,f  like  any  seer 
•  A  geological  nxxlel  of  the  nt;ig>ilKiiirhood  of  Coiiistou,  which  waa 
being  made  umler  his  dirpttiou. 

f  LoiidoD  Iu8titntioD,  IVbrtiarj-  -Jth,  188-1  ;  repe.nted  with  Tan'ntinnt 
and  additioosa  week  later.  The  occu[>atiooi<  of  hiH  reiuniuiiig  weeks  in 
Loudon  are  told  in  the  following  extracU  from  letters  written  to  friend* 
at  Brantwood  in  February  18a4: — 


876        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

of  old,  and  to  tell  them  that  this  eclipse  of  heaven  was — if 
not  a  judgment — at  all  events  a  symbol  of  the  moral  darkness 
of  a  nation  that  had  '  blasphemed  the  name  of  God  deliber- 
ately and  openly  ;  and  had  done  iniquity  by  proclamation, 
every  man  doing  as  much  injustice  to  his  brother  as  it  was  in 
his  power  to  do.' 

It  sounded  like  a  voice  crying  in  the  wilderness ;  to  those 
that  sat  at  case,  a  jest;  to  many  who,  without  his  religious 
feeling  and  without  his  ardent  emotional  temperament,  were 
j-et  working  for  the  same  ends  of  justice  to  the  oppressed,  it 
seemed  like  fanaticism,  out  of  place  in  these  latter  days. 
But  to  him,  growing  old,  and  wearying  for  the  Kingdom  of 
Heaven  which  he  despaired  at  last  of  seeing,  there  was  but 
one  reality— the  great  fact,  as  he  knew  it,  of  God  above,  and 
man  either  obeying  or  withstanding  Him.  Civilization,  Art, 
Science,  and  all  the  pride  of  human  progress,  he  weighed  in 
the  balance  against  the  stern  law  of  right  and  wrong,  which 

'  I  want  to  know  all  about  the  bells,  and  what  the  children  [at  the 
Bchool]  are  making  of  them  :  1  bought  the  compass  (seaman's  on  card), 
and  another  of  needle,  for  the  big  school,  yesterday;  and  another  on 
card  for  the  infants,  and  I  want  to  know  how  the  bricks  get  on.  What 
a  blessed  time  it  takes  to  get  anything  done  ! 

'  I  had  rather  a  day  of  it  yesterday.  Into  National  Gallery  by  half- 
past  eleven— went  all  over  it,  noting  things  for  lecture  to  the  Aciidemy 
girls  on  Saturday.  Tlien  a  nice  half  hour  in  a  toy-sh<ip,  buying  toys 
for  the  cabman's  daughter  [Miss  Greeuaway's  liitle  model] — kaleidoscope, 
magnetic  fish,  and  skipping  rope.  Out  to  Holloway — sate  for  my 
portrait  to  K.  G. — cabman's  daughter  at  four — had  tea,  muffins,  magnetic! 
fishing,  skipping,  and  a  game  at  marbles.  Back  across  town  to  Sanger's 
Amphitheatre  over  'Westminster  Bridge.  Saw  pretty  girl  ride  haute 
^cole,  and  beginning  of  pantomime,  but  pantomime  too  stupid  ;  so  I 
came  away  at  half  past  ten,  walked  a  mile  homewards  in  the  moonlight 

— shower  coming  ou  took  cab  up  the  hill,  and  had  pretty to  boil 

eggs  for  my  supper. 

'I  really  shall  be  rather  sorry  to  leave  town  ;  but  there's  something 
to  be  said  for  the  country,  too.  .  .  . 

'Please  find  a  catalogue  of  108  or  110  minerals,  written  by  me,  of 
my  case  at  the  Biitish  Mu.seum.  You'll  easily  guess  which  it  is  among 
the  MSS.  in  top  drawer  of  study  book-case,  west  side,  farthest  from 
fire.     I  want  it  here  by  Monday,  for  I'm  going  on  Tuesday  to  have  a 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  877 

our  fathers  have  told  us.'  It  hnd  always  liccn  the  hiirdon  of 
his  teaching;  ami  nmiilst  all  minor  iiiterists  and  occupations, 
the  note  sounded  louder  anil  deeper  than  hefore,  now  that  he 
had  shaken  off  the  hesitancy  of  philosophic  donht,  and  saw 
the  space  narrowing  between  hiiu  and  '  the  earnest  portal  of 
eternity.' 

In  the  autumn,  at  Oxford,  he  took  up  his  parable  asain 
His  lectures  on  '  The  Pleasures  of  Kiifiland  '  he  intended  as  a 
sketch  of  the  main  stream  of  history  from  his  own  relijjious 
standpoint.  It  was  a  noble  theme,  ami  one  which  his  breadth 
of  outlook  and  detailetl  experience  wouiil  have  (ilteil  him  to 
handle;  but  he  was  alreaily  nearing  the  limit  of  his  vital 
])owers.  He  had  been  suHering  from  depression  throughout 
the  summer,  unrelieved  by  the  energetic  work  for  St.  George's 
Museum,  which  in  other  days  might  have  been  a  relaxation 
from  more  serious  thought.  He  had  been  editing  Miss 
Alexaniler's  '  Roadside  Songs  of  Tuscany,''  and  recixsting 
earlier  works  of  his  own,  incessantly  busy ;  presuming  upon 

lon^  d.-iy  at  Hie  cane.  They're  going  to  exhibit  the  two  dinmoDds  and 
ruby  on  loan,  the  tirat  time  they've  doue  so. 

'  I  h.id  nilher  a  day  of  it  yesterday.  Out  at  half-past  ten,  to  china- 
ihop  in  Groaveiior  Place  and  ghiss-shop  ia  Puhice  Koad.  Bought 
cotFee-  and  tea-cups  for  Academy  girls  to-morrow,  and  a  blue  bottle  for 
oivsfif.  Then  to  Borhm's,  and  ordered  twelve  medallions:  flattest  b.ia- 
relief  sire-of-life  profiles,  chosen  British  ty|)e8— six  men  and  six  girla. 
Theu  to  Kensington  Museum,  and  made  notes  for  to-morrow's  lecture. 
Then  to  British  Museum,  ami  worked  for  two  hours  arranging  agates. 
Then  into  city,  and  heard  Mr.  Gale's  lecture  on  British  S|xirta  at 
London  lustitution.  Then  home  to  supper,  and  exhibited  crockery 
and  re.id  my  letters  before  going  to  bed. 

'But  I'm  ruther  sleepy  this  afternoon— however,  Fm  going  to  th« 
riiuce*s8  to  see  Claudijn  (by  the  actor's  request)— hop«  I  shau't  fall 
asleep.' 

These  are  only  scraps,  to  show  that  his  prophetic  function  was  not 
all  snckcloth  ami  ashes,  lie  was  none  the  less  a  prophet  for  l)eing 
Jonah's  opiKMite.  lie  took  a  deep  interest  in  the  modern  Nineveh. 
The  next  letter  euda :  '  What  u  the  world  coming  to  ?  /  with  I  could 
ftay  In  ite  /' 

(Miss  Kate  Greenaway  wishes  it  to  be  stated  that  the  portrait,  men- 
tioned  in  one  of  the  al>0Te  leltere,  waa  not  completed.) 


S78        LITE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

the  health  he  had  enjoyed,  and  taking  no  hints  nor  advice 
from  anxious  friends,  who  would  have  been  glad  to  have  seen 
the  summer  spent  in  change  of  scene  and  holiday-making. 

At  Oxford  he  was  watched  with  concern— restless  and 
excited,  too  absorbed  in  his  crusr.de  against  the  tendencies 
of  the  modern  scientific  party,  too  vehement  and  unguarded 
in  his  denunciations  of  colleagues,  too  bitter  against  the  new 
order  of  things  which,  to  his  horror,  was  introducing  vivi- 
section in  the  place  of  the  old-fashioned  natural  history  he 
loved,  and  speculative  criticism  instead  of  '  religious  and 
useful  learning.' 

He  was  persuaded  to  cancel  his  last  three  attacks  on 
modern  life  and  thought — '  The  Pleasures  of  Truth,'  of 
'Sense,'  and  of 'Nonsense' — and  to  substitute  readings  from 
earlier  works,  hastily  arranged  and  re-written  ;  and  his  friends 
breathed  more  freely  when  he  left  Oxford  without  another 
serious  attack  of  brain -disease.  He  wrote  on  December  1st, 
ISSi,  to  Miss  Beever :  '  I  gave  my  fourteenth,  and  last  for 
this  year,  lecture  with  vigour  and  effect,  and  am  safe  and 
well  (D.G.)  after  such  a  spell  of  work  as  I  never  did  before.' 
To  another  correspondent,  a  few  days  later :  '  Here  are  two 
lovely  little  songs  for  you  to  put  tunes  to,  and  sing  to  me. 
You'll  have  both  to  be  ever  so  good  to  me,  for  I've  been 
dreadfully  bothered  and  battered  here.  I've  bothered  other 
people  a  little,  too, — which  is  some  comfort !' 

But  in  spite  of  everything,  the  vote  was  passed  to  establish 
a  physiological  laboratory  at  the  museum  ;  to  endow  vivi- 
section— which  to  him  meant  not  only  cruelty  to  animals,  but 
a  complete  misunderstanding  of  the  purpose  of  science,  ('nd 
defiance  of  the  moral  law.  He  resigned  his  Prof'essorsli.p, 
with  the  sense  that  all  his  work  had  been  in  vain,  that  he  was 
completely  out  of  touch  with  the  age,  and  that  he  had  best 
give  up  the  ui  2qual  fight. 

In  former  times  when  he  had  found  himself  beaten  in  his 
struggles  with  the  world,  he  had  turned  to  geology  for  a 
resource  and  a  relief;  but  geology,  too,  was  part  of  the  lield 
of  battle  now.     The  memories  of  his  early  youth  and  the 


THE  STOIIM-CLOUD  879 

bri;;ht  davs  of  his  bovhooil  cnme  back  to  him  as  the  only 
antiilotf  to  the  (hstresst-s  ami  disappoiiitinonts  of  his  aj;e,  niul 
he  strove  to  fori;et  evervtliiiif^  ill  'b_\;jones' — '  I'neterita.' 

It  was  Professor  Norton  who  siifi^estetl  that  he  sliould 
write  his  own  life.  He  hail  be;;iin  to  tell  the  story,  bit  by 
bit,  ill  '  Foi-s.'  On  the  journey  of  ISH2  he  made  a  point  of 
revisitinjj  most  of  the  scenes  of  youthful  work  and  travel,  to 
revive  his  impressions;  but  the  mcetin-j  with  Miss  Alexander 
gave  him  new  interests,  and  his  return  to  Oxforil,  starting 
him,  so  to  say,  on  a  new  lease  of  life,  put  tlie  autobiography 
into  the  background. 

Now,  at  la.st,  he  collected  the  scattered  notes,  and  com- 
pleted his  fii-st  volume,  which  brings  the  account  up  to  the 
time  of  his  coming  of  age.  It  is  not  a  connected  and  syste- 
matic biogi-nphy  ;  it  omits  many  points  of  interest,  especially 
the  steps  of  his  early  successes  and  mental  development ;  but 
it  is  the  brightest  conceivable  picture  of  him.self  and  his  sur- 
roundings— '  six'iies  anil  thoughts  ])erhaps  worthy  of  memory,' 
as  the  title  niotlestly  puts  it — told  with  inimitable  ease  and 
graphic  power.  Readers  who  knew  him  as  a  landscape- 
painter  in  prose  were  surprised  at  his  insight  into  human 
chanicter,  and  his  skill  in  portraiture.  Nothing  coulil  be 
livelier  in  aneidote,  or  ha|)|)ier  in  humorous  expression, — the 
more  surprising  when  one  knows  the  ditlicuit  circumstances 
under  which  the  book  was  written.  Above  all,  it  reveals  the 
pathetic  siile  of  the  authors  life, — his  early  limitations  and 
struggles, — in  a  way  which  taught  a  new  sympathy  for  the 
man  whose  position  had  been  envictl,  whose  self-reliance  and 
gladiatorial  energy  had  liccn  wlmired  and  feareil,  by  readers 
who  little  undepitood  how  nnich  tenderness  they  masked,  and 
how  many  trials  they  hatl  surmounted. 

We  have  traced,  even  morc  fully  than  he  ha.s  told,  a  life 
which  was  a  battle  with  adversities  from  the  begiiming. 
Over-stimulus  in  childhood  ;  intense  ap|)licntion  to  work  in 
youth  and  middle  age,  luider  conditions  of  discouragement, 
both  public  and  private,  which  wouKi  have  been  fatal  to  many 
another  man  ;  and  Uiis,  too,  not  merely  hard  work,  but  work 


380        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

of  an  intense  emotional  nature,  involving — in  his  view  at  least 
— wide  issues  of  life  and  death,  in  which  he  was  another 
Jacob  ^vrestling  with  the  angel  in  the  wilderness,  another 
Savonarola  imploring  reconciliation  between  God  and  man. 

Without  a  life  of  singular  temperance — the  evidence  of 
which  is  seen  in  still  undimmed  clearness  of  eye  and  unfailing 
fulness  of  hair  and  beard — without  unusual  moral  principle 
and  self-command,  he  would  long  ago  have  fallen  in  the  race, 
like  other  men  of  genius  of  his  passionate  type.  He  outlived 
'consumptive'  tendencies  in  youth;  and  the  repeated  indica- 
tions of  over-strain  in  later  life,  up  to  the  time  of  his  first 
serious  break-down  in  1878,  had  issued  in  nothing  more  than 
the  depression  and  fatigue  with  which  most  busy  men  are 
familiar.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  himself  called 
mad, — the  defence  of  Tuimer  was  thought  by  the  dilettanti 
of  the  time  to  be  possible  only  to  a  lunatic  ;  the  author  of 
'  Stones  of  Venice,'  we  saw,  was  insane  in  the  eyes  of  his  critic, 
the  architect ;  it  was  seriously  whispered  when  he  wrote  on 
Political  Economy  that  Ruskin  was  out  of  his  mind  ;  and  so 
on.  Every  new  thing  he  put  forward  '  made  Quintilian  stare 
and  gasp,'  and  soi-disant  friends  shake  their  heads,  until  a 
still  newer  nine-days'-wonder  appeared  from  his  pen  :  the  fact 
being  that  all  along  he  was  simply  ahead  of  his  public,  one  of 
the  very  few  men  of  broad  outlook,  of  panoramic  genius  (to 
quote  Carlyle  on  Goethe)  in  a  hive  of  clever  critics  and  myopic 
specialists. 

But  the  break-down  of  1878,  so  difficult  to  explain  to  his 
public,  made  it  appear  that  the  common  reproach  might  after 
all  be  coming  true.  The  recurrence  of  a  similar  illness  in 
1881  and  1882  made  it  still  more  to  be  feared.  It  seemed  as 
though  his  life's  work  was  to  be  invalidated  by  his  age's  failure ; 
it  seemed  that  the  stale,  shallow  reproach  might  only  too 
easily  be  justifiable. 

We  cannot  but  ask.  How  far  was  there  ground  for  this  fear.!" 
This  is  hardly  the  place  to  discuss  the  general  question  of  the 
connection  of  insanity  with  genius.  That  some  obscure  rela- 
tion of  the  sort  does  exist,  cannot  be  denied  ;  at  any  rate. 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  881 

tlmt  the  busy  brain  of  a  p-eat  man  is  more  liable  than  others 
to  fail,  j)artially  or  wholly,  finally  or  transiently.  The  busi- 
noKs  of  the  public — and  more  especially  of  the  critics  who 
;  •  to  lead  the  public's  juilgment — is  to  distinguish 
Ti  the  normal  career  of  genius  and  its  aberrations.  The 
iiiig  line  is  sometimes  easy  to  draw.  Nobody  doubts  the 
value  of  Kant's  or  Wordsworth's  work,  although  there  was  a 
gloom  over  their  later  days.  xVt  other  times  the  line  is  more 
dillicult  to  lay  down,  as  in  the  case  of  Turner.  In  some  of 
his  most  brilliant  work  one  feels  the  presence  of  morbid 
conditions  long  before  they  can  be  diagnosed  with  cer- 
tainty. 

Ihit  in  the  life  of  a  thinker  and  leader  of  men,  like  Ruskin, 
the  (lucstion  becomes  more  than  a  matter  of  curiosity.  We 
all  admit  him  to  be  sincere  ;  but  is  he  sound  .''  Or,  if  infalli- 
bility be  put  out  of  the  (juestion,  is  he  more — or  less — logical, 
nitional,  coherent  in  mental  development,  than  other  men 
to  whom  we  listen,  and  in  whom  we  trust  for  opinion  and 
advice? 

To  this  there  is  only  one  answer,  'llie  more  I  study  his 
life  the  more  I  see  that  his  work  is  not  irresponsible  and 
eccentric.  The  careful  stuilent  should  be  able  to  trace  his 
genius,  down  to  the  end,  in  continuous  and  rational  progres- 
sion. Passing  over  defined  intervals  of  mental  disea.se,  and 
allowing  for  vehemence  of  expression — partly  characteristic, 
pnrtiv  the  tein|)orary  cHect  of  the  penumbra  of  the  storm- 
cloud — his  mental  development,  I  make  i)old  to  say,  is  normal 
and  logical  throughout  his  life.  And  I  believe  that  when  his 
work  can  be  looked  back  upon  as  a  whole,  with  proper  under- 
standing of  its  environment  and  with  full  knowledge  of  its 
circumstances,  the  connnun  rc|)roach  of  insanity  made  against 
each  new  manifestation  of  his  mind  will  then  be  scorned  as 
an  explmletl  prejudice. 

Hut  these  atUcks  of  mental  disease,  which  at  his  recall  to 
Oxford  .seemed  to  have  been  safely  distanced,  after  his  resig- 
nation began  again  at  more  and  more  fre(|uent  intervals. 
Crash  after  crash  of  tcm|)e»t  fell  upon  him — clearing  away 


882        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKLN 

for  a  -while  only  to  return  with  fiercer  fury,  until  they  left 
him  beaten  down  and  helpless  at  last,  to  learn  that  he  must 
accept  the  lesson  and  bow  before  the  storm.  Like  another 
prophet  who  had  been  very  jealous  for  the  Lord  God  of 
Hosts,  he  was  to  feel  tempest  and  earthquake  and  fire  pass 
over  him,  before  hearing  the  still  small  voice  that  bade  him 
once  more  take  courage,  and  live  in  quietness  and  in  con- 
fidence, for  the  sake  of  those  whom  he  had  forgotttn,  when 
he  cried,  '  I,  even  I  only,  am  left.' 

From  one  who  has  been  out  in  the  storm  the  reader  will 
not  expect  a  cool  recital  of  its  effects.  The  delirium  of  brain- 
fever  brings  strange  things  to  pass  ;  and,  no  doubt,  afforded 
ground  for  the  painful  gossip,  of  which  there  has  been  more 
than  enough, — much  of  it  absurdly  untrue,  the  romancing  of 
ingenious  newspaper-corresjiondents  ;  some  of  it,  the  lie  that 
is  half  a  truth.  For  in  these  times  there  were  not  wanting 
parasites  such  as  always  prey  upon  creatures  in  disease,  as  well 
as  weak  admirers  who  misunderstood  their  hero's  natural 
character,  and  entirely  failed  to  grasp  his  situation. 

Let  such  troubles  of  the  past  be  forgotten  :  all  that  I  now 
remember  of  many  a  weary  night  and  day  is  the  vision  of  a 
great  soul  in  torment,  and  through  purgatorial  fires  the  in- 
effable tenderness  of  the  real  man  emerging,  with  his  passion- 
ate appeal  to  justice  and  baffled  desire  for  truth.  To  those 
who  could  not  follow  the  wanderings  of  the  wearied  brain  it 
was  nothing  but  a  horrible  or  a  grotesque  nightmare.  Some, 
I  in  those  trials,  learnt  as  they  could  not  otherwise  have  learnt 
to  know  him,  and  to  Iwe  him  as  never  before. 

There  were  many  periods  of  health,  or  comparative  health, 
even  in  those  vears.  While  convalescent  from  the  illness  of 
1885  he  continued  '  Praeterita '  and  '  Dilecta,'  the  series  of 
notes  and  letters  illustrating  his  life.  In  connection  with  early 
reminiscences,  he  amused  himself  by  reproducing  his  favourite 
old  nursery  book,  '  Dame  Wiggins  of  Lee.'  He  edited  the 
works  of  one  or  two  friends,  wrote  occasionally  to  newspapers 
— notably  on  books  and  reading,  to  the  Pall  Mtill  Gazette,  in 
ihe  '  S^uiposium'  on  the  best  hundi-ed  books.     He  continued 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  883 

his  nrrnniiciTicnts  for  the  ^Iiiscuni,  and  liclil  an  exhibition 
(June  \HiHi)  of  the  drawings  made  under  his  direction  for  the 
Guild.* 

lie  was  already  drifting  into  another  ilhiess  when  he  sent 
the  famous  reply  to  an  ajipeal  for  help  to  ])ay  off  the  debt  on 
a  chapel  at  Uichmond.  The  letter  is  often  niis(iuoted  for  the 
sake  of  raising  a  laugh,  so  that  it  is  not  out  of  iilaie  to  reprint 
it  as  a  sjwcimen  of  the  more  vehement  expressions  of  this 
period.  The  reader  of  his  life  must  surely  see,  through  the 
violence  of  the  wording,  a  ])crfectly  consistent  and  rejisonable 
expression  of  Mr.  Kuskiu's  views  : — 

•Brantwood,  Conistov, 
•Lancasmirk, 

'Mai/  19/ A,  1888. 

'SlE, 

'I  am  scornfully  amused  at  your  appeal  to  me,  of  all 
people  in  the  world  the  precisely  least  likely  to  give  you  a 
farthing  !  My  fii-st  word  to  all  men  and  boys  who  care  to 
hear  me  is  "  Don't  get  into  debt.  Star\e  and  go  to  heaven — 
but  don't  borrow.  Try  fii-st  begging, — I  don't  mind,  if  it's 
reallv  needful,  stealing  !  But  don't  buy  things  you  can't  pay 
forr 

'  And  of  all  manner  of  debtors,  pious  people  building 
churches  they  can't  pay  for  are  the  most  detestable  nonsense 
to  me.  Can't  you  pi-each  and  pray  behind  the  hedges — or  in 
a  sandpit — or  a  coal-hole — first .' 

'And  of  all  manner  of  churches  thui  idiotically  built,  iron 
churches  are  the  danniablest  to  me. 

*  The  Academi/  of  June  12,  1886,  noticing  Mr.  Albert  Goodwiu'g 
dniwiiiKs  at  the  Kine  Art  Society,  continues  : — 

'  lu  the  name  room  are  a  aeriett  of  drawings  made  for  St.  George's 
Guilil,  under  the  direction  of  Mr.  Riixkiu — mostly  stuilies  of  pictures 
«nd  architecture  in  Italy.  The  artists  are  Sig.  AleiMJiu.Iri  nnd  Messrs. 
Frank  Kaudall,  Fairfax  Murray,  Thomas  Rooke,  and  W.  G.  G>lling- 
wcxhI.  They  are,  without  exception,  beautiful  exnmplex  of  thorough 
workmanship  and  true  colour.  Mr.  Rooke's  *' Cotta^'es  at  Su  Martins, 
etc,'  n-uiinda  us  of  the  days  of  the  I're-Kaphaelites.  Mr.  Uobsoua 
ioigo  fur  the  proposed  muaoum  at  Bewdley  is  also  shown.' 


884        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

'And  of  all  the  sects  of  believers  in  any  ruling  spirit — ■ 
Hindoos,  Turks,  Feather  Idolaters,  and  Munibo  Jumbo,  Log 
and  Fire  worshippers,  who  want  churches,  your  modern  English 
Evangelical  sect  is  the  most  absurd,  and  entirelv  objectionable 
and  unendurable  to  me  !  All  which  they  might  very  easily 
have  found  out  from  my  books — any  other  sort  of  sect  would  ! 
— before  bothering  me  to  write  it  to  them. 

'  Ever,  nevertheless,  and  in  all  this  saying,  your  faithful 
servant, 

'John  Rusmn.' 

The  recipient  of  the  letter  promptly  sold  it.*  Only  three 
days  later,  Mr.  Ruskin  was  writing  one  of  the  most  striking 
passages  in  '  Praeterita'  (vol.  ii.,  chap.  5.) — indeed,  one  of  the 
daintiest  landscape  pieces  in  all  his  works,  describing  the  blue 
Rhone  as  it  flows  under  the  bridges  of  Geneva. 

This  energetic  letter-writing  made  people  stare  ;  but  a  more 
serious  result  of  these  periods  between  strength  and  helpless- 
ness was  the  tendency  to  misunderstanding  with  old  friends. 
j\Ir.  Ruskin  had  spoiled  many  of  them,  if  I  may  sav  so,  by  too 
uniform  forbearance  and  unselfishness :  and  now  that  he  was 
not  always  strong  enough  to  ba  patient,  difficulties  ensued 
which  they  had  not  always  the  tact  to  avert.  '  The  moment 
I  have  to  scold  people  they  say  I'm  crazy,'  he  said,  piteously, 
one  day.  And  so,  one  hai-dly  knows  how,  he  found  himself 
at  strife  on  all  sides.  Before  he  was  fully  recovered  from  the 
attack  of  1886  tliere  were  troubles  about  the  Oxford  drawing 
school ;  and  he  withdrew  most  of  the  pictures  he  had  there  on 
loan.  How  little  animosity  he  really  felt  against  Oxford  is 
shown  from  the  fact  that  early  in  the  next  year  (February 
1887)  he  was  planning  with  his  cousin,  Mr.  Wm.  Richardson, 
to  give  £5000  to  the  drawing  school,  as  a  joint  gift  in 
memory  of  their  two  mothers.  ]Mr.  Richardson's  death,  and 
Mr.  Ruskin's  want  of  means, — for  he  had  already  spent  all  his 
capital, — put  an  end  to  the  scheme.  But  the  remaining 
♦  I  was  iuformed  that  this  letter  had  fetched  £lO.  Mr.  J.  H.  School- 
ing tells  me  that  the  recipient  got  only  a  guinea  for  it. 


THE  STORM-CLOUD  885 

loans,  including  important  and  valuable  drawings  by  himstlf, 
he  did  not  witliiiiaw,  and  it  is  to  be  bopod  tbcy  may  stay 
there  to  show  not  only  the  artist's  hand  but  the  friendly 
heart  of  the  founder  and  benefactor. 

In  April  1887  came  the  news  of  Laurence  Ililliard's  death 
in  the  .Egean,  with  a  shock  that  intensilied  the  tendency  to 
another  recurrence  of  illness.  For  months  the  situation  caused 
great  anxiety.  In  August  he  posted  with  Mi-s.  A.  Severn 
towarils  the  south,  antl  took  up  his  quartei-s  at  Folkestone, 
moving  soon  after  to  Sandgate,  where  he  remainetl,  with  short 
visits  to  town,  until  the  following  summer — better,  or  worse, 
from  week  to  week — sometimes  writing  a  little  for  '  Prieterita," 
or  preparing  material  for  the  continuation  of  untinishcii 
books  ;  but  bringing  on  his  malady  with  each  new  eHbrt.  In 
June  1888  he  went  with  Mr.  Arthur  Severn  to  Abbeville,  and 
niatle  his  headcjuartere  for  nearly  a  month  at  the  Tete  de 
BoEuf.  Here  he  was  aiTested  for  sketching  the  fortilications, 
and  examineil  at  the  ])olice  station,  much  to  his  amusement. 
At  Abbeville,  too,  he  met  Mr.  Detmar  Hlow,  a  young  archi- 
tect, whom  he  asked  to  accompany  him  to  Italy.  They 
stayed  awhile  at  I'aris, — drove,  as  in  18Si2,  over  the  Jura,  and 
up  to  Chamouni,  where  Mr.  Uuskin  wrote  the  epilogue  to  the 
reprint  of  '  Mo<lcrn  Painters';  then,  by  Martigny  and  the 
Simplon,  they  went  to  visit  Mrs.  and  Miss  Alexander  at 
Bas.sano ;  and  thence  to  \'enice.  They  returned  by  the 
St.  Gotthard,  reaching  Heme  Hill  early  in  December. 

But  this  jouniey  did  not,  a.s  it  had  been  hoped.  ])ut  him  in 
posse.vsi<)n  of  his  strength  like  the  jouniey  of  188^.  Then,  he 
had  returned  to  public  life  with  new  vigour;  now,  his  best 
hours  were  hours  of  feebleness  and  de|)rcssion  ;  and  he  came 
home  to  Brantwood  in  the  hist  days  of  the  yeai-,  wearied  to 
death,  to  wait  for  the  end. 


CHAPTER  X. 

DATUR  HOE  A  QUIETI.     (1889-1897.) 

•  But  it  ehall  come  to  pass,  that  at  evening  time  it  shall  be  light'— 
Zech.  xiv.  7. 

IN  the  summer  of  1889,  at  Seascale,  on  the  Cumberland 
coast,  Mr.  Ruskin  was  still  busy  upon  '  Prseterita.''  He 
had  his  task  planned  out  to  the  finish :  in  nine  more 
chapters  he  meant  to  conclude  his  third  volume  with  a  review 
of  the  leading  memories  of  his  life,  do\vn  to  the  year  1875, 
when  the  story  was  to  close.  Passages  here  and  there  were 
written,  material  collected  from  old  letters  and  journals,  and 
the  contents  and  titles  of  the  chapters  arranged  ;  but  the 
intervals  of  strength  had  become  fewer  and  shorter,  and  at 
last,  in  spite  of  all  his  courage  and  energy,  he  was  brought 
face  to  face  with  the  fact  that  his  powers  were  ebbing  away, 
and  that  head  and  hand  would  do  their  work  no  more. 

He  could  not  finish  '  Prasterita ' ;  but  he  could  not  leave 
it  without  record  of  one  companionship  of  his  life,  which  was, 
it  seemed,  all  that  was  left  to  him  of  the  old  times  and  the 
old  folks  at  home.  And  so,  setting  aside  the  plans  he  had 
made,  he  devoted  the  last  chapter,  as  his  forebodings  told  him 
it  must  l3e,  to  his  cousin,  Mrs.  Arthur  Severn,  and  wrote  the 
story  of  '  Joanna's  Care.' 

In  his  bedroom  at  Seascale,  morning  after  morning,  he 
8iill  worked,  or  tried  to  work,  as  he  had  been  used  to  do  on 
journeys  farther  afield  in  brighter  days.  But  now  he  seemed 
lost  among  the  papers  scattered  on  his  table ;  he  could  not 
fix  his  mind    upon  them,  and   turned  from  one  subject  to 


DATUll  IIOllA  QUIETI  387 

nnothcr  in  despair  ;  btuI  vet  patiint,  uiiil  i^iiuily  to  those  with 
liini  who.e  lii'lp  lie  amid  no  loiii;tr  use,  aiiil  who  (lured  not 
sliovv — thouyh  he  could  not  but  j^uess— how  JRart-bix'akin^ 
it  was. 

They  put  the  best  face  upon  it,  of  course :  drove  in  the 
aflcrnoons  about  the  countrv — to  Muncavtir  CilsIIo,  to  C'aider 
AblR'V,  wliere  lie  trieil  to  sketch  once  more  ;  and  when  the 
proofs  of  'Joanna's  Care'  were  finally  revisetl,  to  Wastwater. 
But  tiiivelling  now  was  no  lon<jt'r  restorative. 

It  adiled  not  a  little  to  the  misfortunes  of  the  time  that 
two  of  his  best  friends  in  the  outside  world  were  disputing 
over  a  third.  By  nobody  more  than  by  Mr.  lluskin  was 
Carlyle's  reputation  valued,  and  yet  he  acknowleilf;ed  that 
Mr.  Froude  was  but  telling  the  truth  in  the  revelations  which 
so  sur|)riscil  the  public;  and  much  as  he  admircil  Mr.  Norton, 
he  deprecatetl  the  attack  on  Carlyle's  literary  executor,  whose 
motives  he  understood  and  approve*!. 

In  August,  after  his  return  to  Coniston,  the  storm-cloud 
came  down  upon  him  once  more.  It  was  only  in  the  sunnner 
of  1890  that  he  was  able  to  get  about.  But  firmly  con- 
vintxHl  that  his  one  chance  lay  in  absolute  rest  and  (|uiet,  he 
lias  since  wisely  refused  any  sort  of  exertion,  and  has  been  re- 
warded by  a  sternly  improvement  in  health  and  strength. 

In  the  meantime  he  was  obligeil  to  hand  over  to  others 
«uch  parts  of  his  work  as  others  could  do.  I'he  St. 
George's  Guild  still  continuetl  in  existence,  though  it  natur- 
ally lo>t  much  of  its  interest,  and  the  whole  of  its  distinctive 
mission,  when  he  ceased  to  be  able  to  direct  it  on  the  lines 
marked  out  in'Fors.'  Contributions  from  the  fricnils  and 
companions  of  the  Guild  have,  at  a  rough  calculation  from 
publishetl  accounts,  nearly  ciiiialletl  the  original  i7(HK)  which 
he  gave  to  start  the  fund.  The  agricultural  schemes  have 
Ixjen  left  in  abeyance,  but  the  cnlucational  side,  less  im}M>rtant 
though  more  attainable,  has  pros|x;red.  Very  many  schools 
■inil  collcgi's  have  bcnefitetl  by  its  gifts  and  loans,  but  the 
Museum  at  ."^hetlield  a  looked  upon  us  its  chief  outwuixl  and 
.isihle  sign. 


888        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKLN 

It  had  quite  outgrown  its  cottage  at  Walkley,  never  in- 
tended for  more  than  temporary  premises ;  and  for  ten  years 
there  had  been  talk  of  new  buildings,  at  first  on  the  spot, 
then  on  the  Guild's  ground  at  Bewdley,  where,  at  one  time, 
Mr.  Ruskin  planned  a  fairy  palace  in  the  woods,  ynth 
cloistered  hostelries  for  the  wandering  student.  Such  schemes 
were  sto]iped  less  by  his  illness  than  by  want  of  means. 
jMore  careful  of  others'  projierty  than  his  own,  he  kept  half 
the  fund,  and  bought  land  and  consols  as  a  permanent  endow- 
ment. The  rest  he  sjjent  on  pictures,  books,  casts,  coins,  and 
minerals.  If  sometimes  he  bought  objects  that  seemed  ex- 
pensive, or  paid  liberally  for  work,  it  must  be  remembered 
that  the  rule  of  the  IMuseum  was  to  have  only  the  best  of 
everything,  and  the  rule  of  the  Guild  was  that  the  labourer 
is  worthy  of  his  hire.  There  was  no  waste  in  useless  salaries 
or  accumulated  specimens.  Mr.  Ruskin's  judgment  as  buyer 
was  invaluable,  and  freely  given;  after  all,  what  he  spent 
was  his  own  gift,  to  which  he  added  in  kind  as  time  went  on. 
So  there  was  no  money  for  building. 

Sheffield,  moreover,  did  not  wish  to  lose  the  Museum,  and 
offered  to  house  it  if  the  Guild  would  present  it  to  the  town. 
That  was,  of  course,  out  of  the  question.  But  a  new  offer  to 
take  over  the  collection  on  loan,  the  Guild  paying  a  curator, 
was  another  matter,  and  was  thankfully  accepted.  The  Cor- 
poration fulfilled  their  share  of  the  bargain  with  generosity. 
An  admirable  site  was  assigned  at  JMeersbrook  Park,  in  a  fine 
old  hall  surrounded  with  trees,  and  overlooking  a  broad  view 
of  the  town  and  country.  On  April  15th,  ISGO,  the  Museum 
was  opened  by  the  Earl  of  Carlisle,  in  presence  of  the  Cor- 
poration, the  Trustees  of  the  Guild,  and  a  large  assembly  of 
Mr.  Ruskins  friends  and  Sheffield  townspeople.  Since  then 
the  attendance  of  visitors  and  students  shows  that  the  col- 
lection is  appreciated  by  the  public ;  and  it  is  to  be  hoped 
that  though  nominally  a  loan  it  will  remain  there  in  per- 
petuity, and  that  it  will  be  maintained  and  used  with  dus 
regard  to  the  intentions  of  the  founder. 

Many  other  plans  had  to  be  modified,  as  Mr.  Ruskin  found 


DATUll  IIOUA  yni/n  389 

himself  less  able  to  work,  niul  was  obliged  to  hand  over  his 
business  to  othci-s.  With  his  early  books  he  had  lx.'en  dis- 
Ritislicil,  as  exjji-essinj;  iininnture  views.  'The  Stones  of 
N'enice'  had  l)ecn  recast  into  two  small  volumes,  and  'St. 
Mark's  Uest'  written  in  the  attempt  to  su|)])lement  and  cor- 
rect it.  Hut  the  orij:;inal  book  Wiis  obviously  in  ilemand,  and 
a  111  w  edition  was  brouj^ht  out  in  1S.S(). 

'.Modern  Paintei^s'  had  been  also  on  the  condenmcd  list. 
The  ajjgivssive  Protestant  ism  and  the  <jeolof;ical  theories  in- 
volved in  his  descriptions  of  mountains  he  condemned  a.s 
crroi-s;  moreover,  at  the  time  of  the  liust  edition  publisheil  by 
Messrs.  Smith  &  Elder  (1873),  he  had  been  told  that  the 
plates,  which  he  consideretl  a  very  importfuit  part  of  the 
work,  would  not  stand  another  impression  ;  and  so  he  de- 
stroyed nine  of  them,  in  order  that  no  subsecjuent  edition 
mif;ht  be  broujjht  out  in  the  orij^iiml  form.  He  reprinted 
vol.  ii.  in  a  chcip  edition,  and  began  to  recast  the  rest,  with 
annotations  and  atlditions,  as  'In  Montibus  Sanctis,'  and 
•CVt'li  Enarrant';  while  Miss  S.  Beever's  selections  ('Erondes 
i\<ji-estes')  found  a  ready  sjde.  Hut  this  did  not  satisfy  the 
])ublic,  and  there  was  a  continual  cry  for  a  rejirint,  to  which, 
at  h\>U  he  yielded.  Early  in  1.SS9  the  '  Complete  Edition ' 
appeared  ;  with  the  cancelleil  plates  reproduce<l.  Sets  of 
the  original  volumes  had  reacheil  the  ])rice  of  i!^50,  and 
their  owners  not  unnaturally  felt  aggrieved  at  the  iley)recia- 
tion  of  their  property.  Hut  the  new  edition  was  not  an 
exact  rejirixluction  of  the  old.  No  connois-seur  wouUI  accept 
photogravure  reproductions  and  nuMlern  copies  as  e<]uivalent 
in  value  to  autogra])h  etchings  and  old  masteq>ieces  of  en- 
pniving,  and  the  edition  of  'IHSS'  (as  it  is  dated),  however 
useful  to  the  general  ix-ader,  cannot  replace  the  original  on 
the  shelves  of  the  intelligent  book-lover.  Indcx'd,  in  spite  of 
a  rapid  .sale  of  two  large  is.sues,  which  shows  the  reality  of  the 
demand  for  the  rcjmnt,  the  original  volumes  maintain  a  con- 
sitlerable  value  in  the  market. 

While  working  at  '  Hra-terita,'  Mr.  lluskin  had  looketl  up 
those  old  writings  in  verse  with  which  he  hud  made  his  first 


890        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

reputation  in  his  youth.  He  had  been  often  pressed  to 
reprint  his  volume  of  Poems ;  and  with  a  natural  interest  in 
his  '  first-bom,''  and  in  everything  that  recalled  early  davs,  he 
acceded  to  the  demand — the  more  readily  that  American 
'  pirated '  editions  were  already  in  the  field,  and  verses  falsely 
attributed  to  him  were  in  circulation,  both  in  print  and  in 
MS.  Though  he  had  never  set  great  store  by  his  verse- 
writing,  he  had  never  wished  to  destroy  the  evidences  of  his 
early  industry.  In  1849  he  printed  a  thin  quarto  containing 
the  '  Scythian  Guest,'*  with  a  preface  in  which  he  said  : 
'  However  unwilling  I  might  be  to  stand  for  public  judgment 
as  a  poet  by  bringing  together  those  uncollected  productions, 
I  cannot  pretend  to  think  them  so  wholly  bad  that  no  sample 
should  be  rescued  and  preserved."  Next  year  was  printed  a 
tolerably  full  collection.  In  '  The  Queen  of  the  Air '  he 
gave  a  specimen  of  his  earliest  attempts,  and  in  '  Praeterita  ■" 
quoted  others,  and  alluded  to  many  more.  Now  at  last  he 
handed  over  the  carefully  preserved  MSS.  to  one  of  his 
assistants,  and  the  Poems  of  John  Ruskin  appeared  in  1891. 
The  volumes  form  an  authentic  record  of  the  development  of 
a  remarkable  mind.  'Praeterita'  tells  what  the  old  man 
thought  of  his  boyhood ;  the  Poems,  without  the  self-con- 
sciousness of  most  diary-writers,  reveal  him  as  he  really  was. 
Taken  in  this  light,  they  are  unique  in  literary  history ;  and 
the  plates,  in  photogravure  facsimile  of  his  drawings,  illus- 
trate the  progress  of  his  artistic  powers. . 

These  volumes  were  the  first  published  by  Mr.  Ruskin  after 
the  passing  of  the  American  Copyright  Act.  He  had  alwavs 
felt  it  a  grievance  that  the  enormous  popularity  of  his  works 
in  America  meant  an  enormous  piracy.  Towards  the  end  of 
the  '  Fifties,'  j\Ir.  Wiley  of  New  York  had  begun  to  print 
cheap  lluskins ;  not,  indeed,  illegally,  but  without  proper 
acknowledgment  to  the  author,  and  without  any  reference 
to  the  author's  wishes  as  to  form  and  style  of  production. 
An  artist  and  writer  on  art,  insisting  on  delicacy  and  refine- 

*  Now  excessively  rare.  I  owe  the  notice  to  the  kindBess  of  Mr. 
r.  J.  Wise. 


DATUU  IIOIIA  QUIETI  391 

ment  as  the  first  necessity  of  chau<;litsiiiiuiship,  and  himself 
jpariiifi;  no  trouble  or  expense  in  tlie  ilhistnitioiis  of  his  own 
works,  W!is  niitunilly  dissatisfied  with  tlie  wretched  '  Arto- 
types'  with  wliich  the  American  editions  caricatui-eil  his 
beautiful  plates.  Not  only  that,  but  it  was  a  eonnnon 
practice  to  smug<;Ie  these  eilitions,  recommeniled  by  their 
cheapness,  into  other  countries.  Mr.  Wiley  sent,  on  an 
averaije,  five  hundretl  sets  of  'Modern  Painters' to  Europe 
every  year,  the  pieater  number  to  England.  His  example 
was  followed  by  other  American  publisliere,  so  that  in  New 
York  alone  there  came  to  be  half  a  dozen  houses  advertising 
Iluskin's  works,  and  many  more  throuj^hout  the  cities  of  the 
States.  Mr.  Wiley,  the  first  in  the  field,  jiroposed  to  pav  up 
a  royalty  upon  all  the  copies  he  had  sold  if  Mr.  lluskin  woulil 
recognise  him  as  accredited  publisher  in  America.  The  otter 
of  so  large  a  sum  would  have  been  tenipting,  hml  it  not 
meant  that  Mr.  lluskin  must  condone  what  he  had  for  ycai-s 
denouncc<l,  and  Sixnction  what  he  strongly  disap))roved.  The 
case  would  have  been  different  if  proposals  had  been  made  to 
reproduce  his  books  in  his  own  style,  under  competent  super- 
vision. This  was  done  in  1890,  when  arrangements  were 
made  with  ^lessrs.  Charles  E.  Mcirill  &  Co.,  of  New  York, 
to  bring  out  the  '  Krantwood  '  edition  of  lluskin,  under  the 
eilitoi-ship  of  Professor  C.  E.  Norton. 

Though  the  sale  of  Mr.  lluskin's  books  in  America  has 
never,  until  .so  recently,  brought  him  any  profit,  his  own 
business  in  England,  startcil  in  1871  with  the  monthly 
pamphlet  of  '  Eors,'  and  in  18T2  with  the  volume  of '  Sesame 
and  Lilies,'  has  singularly  prospereil.  Mr.  Cieorge  Allen, 
who,  while  building  up  an  independent  connection,  still 
remains  the  sole  publisher  of  Mr.  lluskin's  works,  says  that 
the  venturc  was  successful  from  its  earliest  years.  It  was 
found  that  the  booksellei-s  were  not  inilis|K'nsable,  and  that 
business  could  Ix-  done  through  the  post  as  well  as  over 
the  counter.  In  spite  of  occasional  difficulties,  such  as  the 
bringing  out  of  works  in  parts,  ap|>earing  irregidarly  or 
stopping  outright   at  the  author's  illnesacs,  there  has  been 


392        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

a  steady  increase  of  profit,  rising  of  late  years  (according  to 
Mr.  Allen)  to  an  average  of  1^4000. 

Fortunate  it  was  for  ]\Ir.  Ruskin  that  his  bold  attempt 
succeeded.  The  i,'200,000  he  inherited  from  his  parents 
had  gone, — chiefly  in  gifts  and  in  attempts  to  do  good. 
The  interest  he  used  to  spend  on  himself;  the  capital  he 
gave  away  until  it  totally  disappeared,  except  what  is  repre- 
sented by  the  house  he  lived  in  and  its  contents.  The  sale 
of  his  books  was  his  only  income,  and  a  great  part  of  that  went 
to  pensioners  to  whom  in  the  days  of  his  wealth  he  pledged 
himself,  to  relatives  and  friends,  discharged  servants,  in- 
stitutions in  which  he  took  an  interest  at  one  time  or  other. 
But  he  had  sufficient  for  his  wants,  and  no  need  to  fear 
poverty  in  his  old  age. 

Though  he  no  longer  read  proofs  nor  wrote  business 
letters,  he  took  an  interest  in  r.il  that  went  on.  His  desire, 
often  expressed,  was  to  see  his  works  completely  accessible  to 
the  public,  and  as  cheap  as  possible  consistent  with  good 
form.  He  de])uted  two  of  his  nearest  friends  to  manage 
the  details  of  business,  without  giving  him  unnecessary 
trouble  ;  but  his  readers  may  be  assured  that  those  in  charge 
were  acting  under  his  eye,  and  sincerely  endeavouring  to  con- 
sult his  wishes  and  interests,  which  constant  intercourse  gave 
them  every  opportunity  of  undeistanding.  The  'Poems,' 
'Poetry  of  Architecture,'  'Studies  in  Both. Arts,'  'Ruskin 
Reader,'  '  Selections,' '  Lectures  on  Landscape,'  and  cheap  re- 
prints of  nearly  all  his  works,  were  published  by  his  permission  1 
and  for  his  profit.  'Modern  Painters'  and  'Stones  of  Venice,' 
on  account  of  their  delicate  illustrations,  which  cannot  easily 
be  reproduced,  for  a  long  time  defied  all  attempts  to  cheapen 
them.  But  readers  who  still  cry  out  for  '  cheap  Ruskin ' 
should  consult  Mr.  Allen's  list. 

In  this  quiet  retreat  at  Brantwood  the  echoes  of  the  outer 
world  did  not  sound  very  loudly.  Mr.  Ruskin  had  been  too 
highly  praised  and  too  roundly  abused,  during  fifty  years 
of  public  life,  to  care  what  magazine  critics  and  journalists 
said    of    him.       Other   men    of    his    standine;   could   solace 


DATUR  IIORA  QUIETI  303 

llicmselvcs,  if  it  be  solace,  in  tlie  consciousness  that  a  pratcfiil 
eoiiiiliv  lias  recognised  their  talents  or  their  services.  Hut 
;ivic  and  academic  honours  were  not  likely  to  he  showered 
on  a  man  who  had  s|)e!it  his  life  in  strenuous  ojiposition  to 
academicism  in  art  and  lettere,  and  in  vigorous  attacks  upon 
both  political  parties,  aiid  upon  the  establisheil  order  of 
things. 

And  yet  Oxford  and  Cambridge  awarded  him  the  highest 
honours  in  their  gift.*  In  187;J  the  Royal  Society  of 
I'aintei-s  in  Watercoloui-s  voted  him  honorary  member,  a 
recognition  which  gave  him  great  pleasure  at  the  time. 
At  did'erent  dates  he  was  clecteil  to  various  societies — 
Geological,  Zoological,  Ai-chitectural,  Horticultural,  His- 
torical, Anthropological,  Metaphysical ;  and  to  the  Athenicum 
and  Alpine  Clubs.  Hut  he  did  not  seek  distinctions,  and 
he  even  declined  tliem,  as  in  the  case  of  the  medal  of  the 
Royal  Institute  of  IJritish  xVrchitects.  Many  years  before,  in 
his  youth,  he  received  the  diploma  of  a  great  Italian  academy. 
He  was  very  busy  at  the  moment,  travelling,  and  not  sure  of 
his  Italian  or  tlie  proper  form  of  reply, — .so  he  told  me  once, — 
and  he  put  oil'  his  acknowledgment  until  he  forgot  all  about 
it.  l-ong  after,  he  recollected  the  discourtesy  with  shame; 
but  it  was  too  late,  then,  to  repair  the  slip,  and  he  was  glad 
to  hear  no  more  of  the  onerous  compliment.  He  appeal's 
h(jwever  in  1877  as  Hon.  Associate  of  the  Academy  of 
\'enicc. 

Ills  works  have  not  been  popularised  abromi  by  transla- 
tions, to  which  he  was  opposeti,  feeling  not  only  that  his  stvle 
would  be  ditlicult  to  render,  but  that  the  audiences  they 
would  addifss  could  hardly  l)e  open  to  the  appeal  he  makes 
so  distinctly  to  the  mind  and  associations  of  an  I'.nglish- 
speaking  race.  But  his  name  is  well  enough  known  in  Italy, 
and  better  known  in  France.     In  18Gt  M.  Joseph  Milsand, 

•  The  Oxfonl  Ilonorary  D.C.L.,  offered  in  1879,  wan  conferred  upon 
him  Nov.  7,  lfi'.).1.  by  a  reaoliition  of  Convocation  '  to  dixix-nse  with  hi* 
Uteu.liiiice  in  the  Iloiwe  for  adinijwion  to  the  dei^-ee  with  the cuatomarjr 
(oriii.ditie«,  any  usage  or  precedent  notwilhataudiug.' 


594        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Browning's  friend,  in  his  '  Esthetique  Anglaise,'  more  recently 
M.  Ernest  Chesneau  in  his  '  Ecole  Anglaise,'*  M.  Marcel 
Fouquier,  M.  Robert  de  la  Sizeranne  in  a  series  of  brilliant 
papers  in  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes,  and  other  Fi'ench 
writers,  have  introduced  him  to  their  countrymen,  so  efficiently 
that  '  le  Ruskinisnie '  has  become  quite  the  Paris  fashion. 
The  diplomas  of  honorary  membership  received  in  1892  from 
the  Royal  Academies  of  Antwerp  and  Brussels  show  that  he 
is  not  unknown  in  Belgium,  and  he  was  elected  an  honorary 
member  of  the  American  Academy. 

A  more  striking  form  of  distinction  than  empty  titles  is 
the  fact  that  Mr.  Ruskin  was  the  first  writer  whose  con- 
temporaries, during  his  lifetime,  formed  societies  to  study  his 
work.  The  first  Ruskin  Society  was  founded  in  1879  at 
Manchester,  and  was  followed  by  the  Societies  of  London, 
Glasgow  and  Liverpool,  still  in  working.  In  1887  the  Ruskin 
Reading  Guild  was  formed  in  Scotland,  with  many  local 
branches  in  England  and  Ireland,  and  a  journal,  subsequently 
re-named  Jgdrasil,  to  promote  study  of  literary  and  social 
subjects  in  Ruskin,  and  in  writers  like  Carlyle  and  Tolstoi 
taking  a  standpoint  similar  to  his.  In  1896,  Ruskin  Societies 
were  formed  at  Birmingham  and  in  the  Isle  of  Man.  Many 
classes  and  clubs  for  the  study  of  Ruskin  are  also  in  operation 
throughout  America. 

A  number  of  other  societies  for  philanthropic  purposes — 
such  as  the  Social  Unions  in  some  lars+e  cities — trace  their 
motive  power  chiefly  to  Ruskin,  through  many  able  thinkers 
and  workers  who  are  making  themselves  a  place  in  the  front 
rank  in  modem  life.  For  though  he  looked  fondly  back  to  old 
times  for  his  personal  ideals,  Ruskin's  teaching  was  essentially 
modern.  Its  atmosphere  was  that  of  the  time  coming;  its 
ideas  were  those  that  commend  themselves  to  the  vanguard  ot 
progi'ess, — not  the  '  progress'  of  old-fashioned  Liberalism,  but 
of  an  age  which  has  been  bom  since  Ruskin's  voice  began  to 

♦  The  English  translation  of  which  was  edited  by  Mr.  Ruskin.  He 
commissioned  M.  Chesneau  to  write  a  life  of  Turner,  which,  after  the 
(xpeuditure  of  £250,  was  abandoned. 


DATUR  HORA  QUIETI  895 

fail,  and  is  now  beginning  to  realize  that  he  was  its  true 
futiiiT  and  pioneer. 

A  curious  indication  of  this  is  the  fact  that  in  the  State  of 
Tennessee  there  is  a  town,  huilt  and  owned  in-  Socialists,  who 
aix-  engaged  in  the  printing  and  publication,  on  the  most 
extensive  scale,  of  literature  devoted  to  the  cause  they  re- 
j)ix>sent.  Tiiey  proposed  in  1896  to  offer  to  'a  reading  con^ 
stitiiency  of  100,000  per  week  a  series  of  special  articles  by 
thoroughlv  rcpivsentative  Socialists  of  all  nations,  under  the 
general  title  of  "  lluskin  Labor  Lett ei-s  to  American  Work- 
ing-men.'"' 'J'heir  organization  calls  itself  'the  lluskin  Co- 
o|Kiative  Association,'  and  the  name  they  have  chosen  for 
their  town  is  '  lluskin.' 

Not  long  since,  talking  over  his  '  failures,'  Mr.  Ruskin  said 
it  was  some  comfort  to  him  that  he  was  not  without  successors, 
antl  he  instanced  Count  Leo  Tolstoi  as  one  who  was,  in  a  way, 
carrying  out  the  work  he  had  hoped  to  do.  About  the  same 
time,  in  the  Coruhill  Magazine,  in  which  'Unto  this  Last' 
api)earcd  over  thirty  years  before,  a  contributor  rejiorted  a 
talk  with  the  great  Russian  : — '  lluskin  he  thought  one  of  the 
greatest  men  of  the  age ;  and  it  pained  him  to  notice  that 
I'.nu'lish  people  generally  were  of  a  diliei-ent  opinion.  But 
"no  man  is  a  prophet  in  his  own  country,"  and  the  greatest 
im  II  are  seldom  recognised  in  their  own  times  for  the  very 
rea>on  that  they  are  so  much  in  advance  of  the  age.  I'heir 
contemporaries  arc  unable  to  understand  them.' 

So  Tolstoi  speaks ;  so  all  the  best  men  of  his  time  have 
upoken  about  lluskin  ;  and  after  theirs,  what  testimony  can 
be  added .' 

«  •  •  «  • 

It  is  long  since  we  travelled  there  together  and  shared  the 
diversions  of  Ihantwood.  Shall  we  go  once  more  to  the 
place  as  it  is  to-day  ?  Or — '  that  I  may  not  piece  pure  truth 
with  fancy' — shall  I  set  down  simply  some  notes  of  a  visit, 
written  at  the  time? 

It  is  New-year's-eve  of  1897  ;  midwinter  in  the  north, — 
•Jid  yet  not  so  far  north  but  that  our  winters  are  mostly 


396        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

open  and  mild,  and  even  their  frosts  are  kindly.  The  Gulf 
Stream  warms  our  coast,  and  the  dales  lie  low  and  sheltered 
when  snow  shines  keen  on  Helvelljn  top  and  on  the  Coniston 
Old  Man.  You  may  find  colder  weather  in  Italy,  for  the 
time  of  year,  and  drearier  scenes  at  Venice  and  Como.  Our 
fields  are  richly  green  ;  the  waysides  lovely  with  ivy-wieath.*, 
and  fringed  polypody,  and  mosses  rooted  in  the  rain-washed 
rock.  There  is  no  landscape  more  finished  in  its  detail.  And 
we  have  wealth  of  evergreen  trees  among  the  brown  copse ; 
this  year,  too,  scarlet  clouds  of  hips  and  haws  blurring  the 
woods  with  moie  than  autumnal  colour. 

The  study-windows  at  Brantwood   yesterday  looked    out 
upon   a  spread  of  grey  lake,  overflowing  the  low  fields  by 
Coniston  hall,  and  ridged   into  foam  under  a  strong  south  | 
wind.     Above  the  gleaming  wet  roofs  of  the  distant  village  \ 
ranges  of  crag,  russet  with  fern,  rose  abruptly  into  the  soft  ' 
grey  ceiling  of  cloud,  and  along  their  precipices  there  stood 
white  waterfalls,  forked  and  zigzagged  like  fixed  lightnings. 

Beside  the  window — you  have  seen  him,  if  vou  know  one 
portrait,  compared  with  which  the  rest  are  almost  caricatures. 
]\Iany  excellent  attempts  of  good  photographers  have  posed 
him  in  unwonted  attitudes,  or  dragged  him  into  groups,  or 
failed,  by  unskilful  lighting,  to  catch  the  modelling  of  the 
head.  This  one  is  Mr.  Ruskin  himself,  as  he  sits  in  his 
accustomed  seat  of  now-a-davs.  It  used  to  be  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  little  octagon  table  in  the  bay  window,  where  he 
always  sat  for  light  to  write  by,  and  bade  his  visitor  take  the 
armchair  beside  the  fire,  turning  out  the  cat  from  her  comfort- 
able place.  But  the  days  of  his  writing  are  over,  and  the 
time  has  come  for  him  to  rest  in  the  shadowy  comer  among 
the  bookshelves. 

This  photograph  by  ]\Ir.  Hollyer*  is  '  a  thing  to  wonder 
on,'  almost  reaching  the  imaginative  portraiture  of  a  ^Vatts 
or  a  Tintoret  in  its  seizure  of  essential  characteristics — the 
face  monumental   in  extremes  of  strength  and  refinement, 

*  Reproduced,  but  inadequately,  in  The  Commonwealth  for  July, 
189a. 


DATUR  HORA  QUIETI  897 

wandennjj  white  bean!  and  ample  wavy  hair ;  the  repose  of 
delicate  foitieil  haiuis,  and  the  twilijrht  of  tiic  curtained  nook, 
with  just  the  gleaming  liglits  that  Rembrandt  or  Velascjuez 
would  have  noted  and  struck  in  from  a  loaded  brush.  But  it 
is  all  the  simple  truth,  as  far  as  a  photogra|)h  can  show  it. 

Yesterday  there  wa.s  more  to  see  than  any  photograpli  can 
show  ;  for  the  weak  winter  twiliglit  was  not  the  only  light, 
and  the  grey  of  the  raincloud  not  the  only  colour  m  the 
room.  AVarni  glow  from  the  hearth,  anil  the  radiance  of 
flowers  in  rich  masses  —  anemones,  cyclamen,  primuliis, 
grouped  there  by  loving  hands,  on  the  table,  round  the 
window-sill,  on  every  available  standing-spot,  made  the  place 
like  a  shrine  on  a  feast-day. 

He  looked  up,  and  half  rose,  with  outstretched  hand,  and 
the  smile  of  old  acquaintixnce  ;  pushing  back  a  heap  of  books 
and  letters  at  his  elbow : — Christmas  lettei-s  from  friends  all 
round  the  world,  old  favourite  volumes  of  Carlyle,  a  Words- 
worth in  its  latest,  daintiest  dress,  children's  stories  of  the 
sea.son,  and  on  the  top  of  the  heap,  with  gold  spectacles 
between  its  leaves,  a  booklet  of  religious  thought.  With 
such  companions  one  travels  gladly,  approaching  '  the  earnest 
portals  of  eternity.'' 

You  would  think  him  older  than  his  years  ;  but  so  he  must 
alwavs  have  seemed.  You  remember  that  he  was  already  a 
writer,  not  without  success,  on  the  verge  of  celebrity,  sixty 
vcars  ago.  If  'actions  are  epochs,'  how  many  an  age  has 
passed  over  him.  And  the  years  of  later  trial  have  left  thfir 
mark  in  the  ageing  of  the  bowed  frame  and  ((uiet  voice.  But 
in  this  repose  there  is  more  restraint  than  feebleness;  now 
and  again  a  word  Hashing  waywardly  out,  or  a  ge.^tu^e  im- 
pu'sive  as  ever,  betrays  the  fund  of  latent  strength,  and  health 
in  >oine  measure  regained. 

He  had  been  out  for  a  walk  in  the  morning,  he  said, — 
'  But  the  wind  was  too  nunh  for  me ;  and  so  I  went  into  the 
garden,  and  took  refuge  in  the  givcnhouse.'  The  afternoon 
was  not  tempting  enough  for  the  usual  tninip  along  the  lake- 
tide  or  through  the  wood.     So  he  sat  talking  over  the  doings 


398        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

of  the  season,  and  such  news  az  the  last  few  days  had  brought. 
There  was  a  debate  in  the  French  (Chamber  of  Leputies,  in 
which  j\I.  Aynard,  writer  on  art  and  representative  of  L\cns, 
had  ended  a  briUiant  speech  on  art-education  with  a  reference 
to  Ruskin,  followed  by  '  vifs  applaudissenients.''  There  were 
messages  from  societies,  and  readers  in  America  and  else- 
where. There  was  the  Peterborough  '  restoi-ation '  affair,  for 
which  he  still  has  language  at  coiiunand, — it  was  only  the 
other  day  that  he  dictatetl  a  letter  to  the  Times  about  it, — 
Oh  Ruskinian  inconsistency  ! — within  an  hour  or  so  after 
declining  personal  answers  to  a  budget  of  pressing  correspon- 
dence, on  the  plea  of  needful  repose. 

There  are  still  many  who  fail  to  i-ealize  this  need,  and  con- 
tinue to  write  to  him  as  to  a  man  in  active  life.  After  all 
these  years  there  come  frequent  letters,  demanding  his  advice, 
opinion,  sympathy,  money,  influence,  autograph,  and  so  forth. 
In  a  word  it  may  be  said  that  such  apjieals  are  useless.  To 
his  pers(mal  friends  Mr.  Ruskin  is  always  accessible,  as  they 
know.  From  his  readers  he  is  glad  to  get  the  kindly  expression 
of  their  feeling  for  him.  But  for  the  rest,  he  has  stated  his 
thoughts  and  given  his  advice  fully  in  print ;  any  influence  he 
can  use  or  gifts  in  his  keeping  have  been,  among  so  wide  an 
ac(]uaintance,  long  bespoken ;  he  declines  to  write  any  more 
autograjihs — though  he  takes  ])en  in  hand  on  occasion.  '  I 
think  I  have  done  enough  of  that  sort  of  thing,'  he  says.  '  I 
feel  that  if  I  answer  one,  I  may  have  to  answer  hundreds.' 
And  all  true  friends  must  surely  respect  this  feeling. 

Last  summer,  on  the  steamboat,  there  was  a  fine  old  gentle- 
man, who  when  we  came  over  against  Brantwood  took  off  hi* 
hat  and  stood  with  his  grey  h^ir  to  the  wind  until  the  place 
was  out  of  sight.  That  was  a  truer  tribute  than  waylaying 
a  celebrity  on  his  private  walks,  and  besieging  his  windows 
with  the  mockery  of  hero-worsliip. 

The  talk  at  last  fell  on  more  homely  topics,  for  'Mr.  Kuskin 
has  always  a  kindly  interest  in  his  neighbours  of  the  vilLiL'e. 
Lately,  to  forward  the  building  of  a  Recreation-room,  library 
Wid  museum,  to  which  he  had  already  given  a  collection  of 


DATUR  HORA  QUIETI  899 

minerals,  he  sent  a  mimhcr  of  little  sketches,  looked  out  and 
signed  (or  the  piupose  ;  whirh  foil  nil  a  ready  sjile  and — this 
is  not  unworthy  of  note — imrilmsei-s.  for  the  most  part, among 
Coniston  folk  themselves.  For  he  ilwells  among  his  own 
people.  I  ilouht  if  tiiere  is  a  child  in  the  dale  hut  ngnrds 
him  with  some  mystery  of  reveivncc  such  as  their  forefathers 
gave  to  the  gentle  hermit  and  tutelary  saint  of  the  country- 
side. 

What  more  is  there  to  say  ?  He  dwells  among  his  own 
people.  Those  who  live  with  him  are  his  hy  hlood  iind  hy  adop- 
tion, lie  sees  their  children  growing  uj)  around  him  in  the 
house  that  he  has  built  for  thein  :  and  lifting  his  eyes  to 
the  hills — behold — beyond — shall  he  not  see  of  the  travail  of 
his  .soul  ? 

For  now  the  stoim-c'oud  has  drifted  away,  and  there  is 
light  in  the  west,  a  mellow  light  of  evening  time,  such  m 
Turner  painted  in  his  pensive  Fpiiogue.  '  Datur  Mora 
Quieti ':  there  is  more  work  to  do,  but  not  to-day.  The 
plough  stands  in  the  furrow  ;  and  the  labourer  passes  peace- 
fully from  his  toil,  homewards. 


ONE  WORD  MORE. 

«  «  ,  'We  shall  rest,  aud,  faith,  we  shall  need  it.'  ,  .  . 

The  Seven  Seat. 

SO  far  I  wi-ote  while  he  was  still  with  us,  and  seemed,  for 
all  that  we  could  forecast,  likely  to  enjoy  many  a  year 
of  the  same  repose.  His  mother,  we  used  to  say,  lived  to 
her  ninetieth  year ;  and  in  spite  of  all  he  had  come  through 
he  showed  many  signs  of  reserve  strength.  The  absolute 
quiet  and  ease  of  circumstances,  the  watchful  attendance  of 
Mrs.  Severn  and  of  his  faithful  valet  Baxter,  husbanded  the 
resources  of  life ;  and  he  tooii  kindly  to  the  inaction  which 
others  feared  for  him.  With  his  daily  walk,  his  books  and 
pa]5ers,  and  the  small  circle  of  intimates — for  visitors  were 
rare— he  declared  himself  perfectly  happy,  and  said,  smiling, 
that  he  had  earned  a  holiday. 

His  eightieth  birthday  was  the  signal  for  an  outburst  of 
congratulations  almost  greater  than  even  admirers  had  ex- 
pected. The  post  came  late  and  loaded  with  flowers  and 
letters,  and  all  day  long  telegrams  arrived  from  all  parts  of 
the  world,  until  they  lay  in  heaps,  unopened  for  the  time 
being.  A  great  address  had  been  prepared,  with  costly  illu- 
mination on  vellum,  and  binding  by  ^Ir.  Cobden  Sanderson. 
'  Year  by  year,'  it  said,  '  in  ever  widening  extent,  there  is  an 
increasing  trust  in  your  teaching,  an  increasing  desire  to  realize 
the  noble  ideals  you  have  set  before  mankind  in  words  which 
we  feel  have  brought  nearer  to  our  hearts  the  kingdom  of 
God  upon  earth.     It  is  our  hope  and  prayer  that  the  joy  aiid 


ONE  WORD  MORE  401 

peace  you  have  broujjht  to  others  may  return  in  full  measure 
to  your  own  heart,  filling  it  with  the  peace  wliich  comes  from 
the  love  of  God  and  the  knowledge  of  the  love  of  your  fellow- 
nicn.'  Among  those  who  subscribed  to  these  sentiments  were 
various  people  of  importance,  such  as  Royal  Academicians, 
tlie  Roval  Society  of  Painters  in  Watercolours,  the  Trustees 
of  the  British  Museum  and  of  the  National  Gallery,  the 
St  George's  Guild  and  Ruskin  Societies,  with  many  others; 
and  the  address  was  presented  by  a  deputation  who  reported 
that  they  had  found  him  looking  well  '  and  extremely 
happy.' 

A  similar  illuminated  address  from  the  University  of  Oxford 
tan  thus : — '  We  venture  to  send  you,  as  you  begin  your 
eighty-first  year,  these  few  words  of  greeting  and  good-will, 
to  make  you  sure  that  in  Oxford  the  gratitude  antl  reverence 
with  which  men  think  of  you  is  ever  fresh.  You  have  hcl|)ed 
many  to  find  in  life  more  happiness  than  they  thought  it 
held  ;  and  we  tnist  there  is  happiness  in  the  latter  years  of 
your  long  life.  You  have  taught  many  to  see  the  wealth  of 
beauty  in  nature  and  in  art,  prizing  the  remembrance  of  it ; 
and  we  trust  that  the  sights  you  have  best  loved  come  back 
to  y<nir  memory  with  unfading  beauty.  You  have  encouraged^' 
111  iiiv  to  keep  a  good  heart  through  dark  days,  and  we  trust 
tiiit  the  courage  of  a  constant  hope  is  yours.' 

The  London  Ruskin  Society  sent  a  separate  address ;  and 
to  show  that  if  not  a  prophet  in  his  own  country  he  wa.s  at 
any  rate  a  valued  friend,  the  Coniston  Tarish  Council  resolved 
'  and  carriwl  unanimously,'  says  the  local  journal,  '  with 
applause," — 'That  the  congratulation.s  of  this  council  be 
olfcred  to  Mr.  John  Ruskin,  on  the  occjision  of  his  eightieth 
birthday,  together  with  the  warm  thanks  which  they  and  all 
their  neighbours  feel  for  the  kinilness  he  has  shown,  and  the 
many  generous  acts  he  has  done  to  them  and  theirs  during 
twenty-seven  yeai-s  of  residence  at  Coniston,  where  his  presenc-e 
is  most  truly  appreciated,  and  his  name  will  always  be  most 
gratefully  rememberetl.' 

But  as  the  year  went  on  he  did  not  regain  his  usual  summer 
26 


408        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

strength.  Walking  out  had  become  a  greater  weariness  to 
hira,  and  he  had  to  submit  to  the  humiliation  of  a  bath-chair. 
To  save  himself  even  the  labour  of  creeping  down  to  his  study, 
he  sat  usually  in  the  turret-room  upstairs,  next  to  his  bed- 
chambei-,  but  still  with  the  look  of  health  in  his  face,  and 
the  fire  in  his  eyes  quite  unconquered.  He  would  listen  while 
Baxter  read  the  news  to  him,  following  public  events  witli 
interest,  or  while  Mrs.  Severn  or  Miss  Severn  read  stories, 
novel  after  novel ;  but  always  liking  old  favourites  best,  and 
never  anything  that  was  unhappy.  Some  pet  books  he  would 
pore  over,  or  drowse  over,  by  the  hour.  The  la^t  of  these 
was  one  in  which  he  had  a  double  interest,  for  it  was  about 
ships  of  war,  and  it  was  written  by  the  kinsman  of  a  dear 
friend.  Some  of  the  artists  he  had  loved  and  helped  had 
failed  him  or  left  him,  but  Bume-Jones  was  always  true. 
One  night,  going  up  to  bed,  the  old  man  stopped  long  to 
look  at  the  photograph  from  Philip  Bume-Jones's  portrait 
of  his  father.  '  That's  mv  de;ir  brother  Ned,"  he  said,  nodding 
good-bye  to  the  picture  as  he  went.  Next  night  the  great 
artist  died,  and  of  all  the  many  losses  of  these  later  years 
this  one  was  the  hardest  to  bear. 

So  when  a  little  boy  lent  him  '  A  Fleet  in  Being '  he  read 
and  re-read  it ;  then  got  a  copy  for  himself,  and  might  have 
learnt  it  by  heart,  so  long  he  pored  over  it.  But  when  the 
little  boy  or  his  sisters  went  to  visit  the  '  Di  Pa'  (Dear 
Papa),  as  he  liked  children  to  call  their  old  friend,  he  had 
now  scarcely  an\-thing  to  talk  about.  '  He  just  looked  at  us, 
and  smiled,'  they  would  report ;  '  and  we  couldn't  think  what 
to  say.'" 

But  he  had  his  '  bright  days,'  when  he  would  hear  business 
discussed,  though  a  very  little  of  it  was  wearisome.  It  was 
impossible  to  bring  before  him  half  the  wants  and  wishes  of 
his  correspondents,  who  could  not  yet  realize  his  weakness, 
and  besought  the  notice  they  fancied  so  easily  given.  Yet 
in  that  weakness  one  could  trace  no  delusions,  none  of  the 
mental  break -down  which  was  taken  for  granted.  If  he  gave 
an  opinion  it  was  clear  and  sound  enough ;  of  course  with  the 


ONE  WORD  MORE  403 

old  Uiiskinian  wii\  wnnlncss  of  idea  which  nlwavs  puzzled 
his  public.  Hut  he  knew  wluit  he  w.is  about,  !ii>d  knew  wh.it 
was  j;i>iiig  oil.  lie  was  jii.st  like  the  i\<^vi\  Queen  And  in  the 
saija,  who  'rose  late  antl  went  to  hed  earlv,  anil  if  an_\one 
asked  after  her  health  she  answeretl  sharply.' 

Rut  all  the  love  and  care  spent  on  hiui  could  not  keep  him 
with  us.  There  came  the  Green  Yule  that  makes  a  fat  kirk- 
yard,  and  in  January  of  1901)  hardly  a  house  in  the  neighbour- 
hood was  free  from  the  plague  of  inHuenzn.  In  spite  of 
strictest  precautions  it  invaded  Bnuitwood,  and  we  all  said, 
'  If  only  he  can  be  kept !' 

To  some  the  18th  of  January  is  a  date  of  evil  omen,  but 
they  hardly  anticipated  what  evil  it  would  bring  them.  That 
day  he  was  remarkably  well,  as  peo|)le  often  ore  before  an 
illness — '  fey,'  as  the  old  Northern  folk-lore  has  it.  Towards 
evening,  when  Mi-s.  Severn  went  to  him  for  the  usual  reading 
— it  was  Edna  Lyall's  'In  the  Golden  Days' — his  throat  was 
irritable  and  he  '  achecl  all  over.'  They  put  him  to  bed  and 
sent  for  Dr.  Parsons,  his  constant  medical  attendant,  who 
found  his  teni|xrature  as  high  as  10!2',  and  feared  the  con- 
sequences. Rut  the  patient,  jis  he  always  did,  refused  to  be 
considered  ill,  and  ate  his  dinner,  and  seemed  next  day  to  be 
really  better.  There  was  no  great  cause  for  alarm,  though 
naturally  some  for  anxiety  ;  and  in  reasonable  hopes  of  amend- 
ment, the  slight  attack  was  not  made  public. 

On  Saturday  morning,  the  SiOth,  all  ap|)earecl  to  be  going  well 
until  about  half-past  ten.  Suddenly  he  collapsed  and  became 
unconscious.  It  was  the  dremled  failure  of  heart  atler  in- 
flucii/a.  His  breathing  weakenetl,  and  through  the  morning 
and  through  the  afternoon  in  that  historic  little  room,  lined 
with  his  Turners,  he  lay,  falling  softly  asleep.  No  eflorts 
could  revive  him.  There  was  no  stmggle;  there  were  no 
woais.  The  bitterness  of  death  was  spai-ed  him.  And  when 
it  was  all  over,  and  those  who  had  watched  through  the  djiy 
turned  at  last  from  his  bedside,  *  8uns<.'t  and  evening  star' 
ihone  bright  above  the  heavenly  lake  aud  the  clear-cut  blue 
of  Coniston  fells. 
26—3 


404        LIFE  AND  WOKK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

But  sweet  as  his  setting  out  was  for  him,  we  were  a  sad 
little  group  in  the  twilight  below.  How  marble-calm  and 
dear  the  face  was  when  I  Hfted  the  covering  :  how  unbeliev- 
able that  the  great  heart  was  still.  Was  it  this  I  had  feared, 
this  lovely  death,  serenely  arriving.'  Of  all  the  thoughts 
that  might — one  remembers — have  crowded  to  mind  around 
Ruskin's  deathbed,  one  only  shaped  itself  into  words,  again 
and  again  repeating :  '  Let  me  die  the  death  of  the  righteous, 
and  let  my  last  end  be  like  his.' 

While  we  still  talked  in  whispers  round  the  fire  the  news 
was  abroad.  It  could  not  have  been  wholly  unexpected,  but 
it  came  as  a  shock  to  many  a  reader  of  the  Saturday  evening 
paper,  who  was  hoping  or  feai'ing  far  different  tidings  of 
death  or  victory  at  the  war ;  and  even  such  great  events,  for 
many,  seemed  to  stand  still  when  they  knew  that  we  had  lost 
the  last  of  the  great  old  men. 

Next  morning  brought  messages  of  hurried  condolence, 
and  the  Monday  such  a  chorus  from  the  press  as  made  all 
the  praises  of  his  lifetime  seem  trifling  and  all  its  blame 
forgotten.  If  only,  in  his  years  of  struggle  and  despair,  he 
had  known  the  place  he  should  win  ! 

On  the  Tuesday  came  a  telegram  offering  a  grave  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  the  highest  honour  our  nation  can  give  to  its 
dead.  But  his  own  mind  had  long  since  been  made  plain  on 
that  point,  and  his  wishes  had  not  been  forgotten.  '  If  I  die 
here,'  he  used  to  say,  '  bury  me  at  Coniston.  I  should  have 
liked,  if  it  happened  at  Heme  Hill,  to  lie  with  my  fiither  and 
mother  in  Shirley  churchyai-d,  as  I  should  have  wished,  if  I 
died  among  the  Alps,  to  be  buried  in  the  snow.'  And  indeed 
to  send  Ruskin's  dead  body  by  rail,  and  drag  it  through 
London  streets  to  a  grave,  however  honourable,  among 
strangers,  would  have  been,  to  all  who  love  him  and  liis 
teaching,  little  short  of  a  mockery. 
'  Another  desire,  strongly  expressed,  was  for  a  cast  of  his 
face  and  hand,  as,  no  doubt,  has  been  not  unusual  when 
great  men  have  died.  But  I  remember  too  well  his  anger,  at 
Lucca  years  ago,  with  an  Itahan  who  had  dared  so  to  profane 


ONE  WORD  MORE  405 

a  face  he  loved.  Mr.  Ruskin  had  ivsked  at  a  shop  whether 
tlity  sold  a  cast  of  the  eflif^y  of  Iliuia  di  Caretto,  and  was 
tolil  '  No.'  Next  morniiij;,  soiiig  into  the  church,  we  found 
the  dejul  liuly's  face — he  always  thoujjht  of  that  wonderful 
scul|)ture  as  the  deatl  lady,  ami  not  mere  lifeless  inarhle — we 
found  it  wet  and  fouled,  and  knew  what  had  heen  done. 
\\'1k'ii  the  man  came  with  the  ghastly  white  mask,  trium- 
phant in  antici|)ation  of  the  Si^nor's  gratitude,  there  was 
such  a  storm  as  few  peojjje  woulil  have  anticipated  or  under- 
stood. Such  being  his  feelings,  who  would  dare  to  outrage 
them  on  his  own  person  ? 

We  carried  him  on  Monday  night  down  from  his  bed- 
chamher  and  laid  him  in  the  stutly.  There  wa.s  a  pane  of 
glass  let  into  the  collin-lid,  so  that  the  face  might  be  kept 
in  siijht;  and  there  it  lay,  among  lilies  of  the  vallev,  and 
frameil  in  the  wreath  sent  by  Mr.  Watts,  the  great  painter, 
a  wreath  of  the  true  Greek  laurel,  the  victor's  crown,  from 
the  tree  growing  in  his  garden,  cut  only  thrice  before,  for 
Tennyson  and  Leighton  and  Burne-.Iones.  It  would  \ye  too 
long  to  tell  of  all  such  tokens  of  affection  and  resjiect  that 
were  heaped  upon  the  coflin, — from  the  wreath  of  the  I'rincess 
Louise  down  to  the  tributes  of  hund)le  dependents, — above  a 
hundreil  and  twentv-five,  we  counted  ;  some  of  them  the 
costliest  money  could  buy,  some  valued  no  less  for  the  feeling 
they  expressed.  I  am  not  sure  that  the  most  striking  was 
not  the  village  tailor's,  with  this  on  its  label — 'There  was  a  , 
man  sent  from  Gotl,  antl  his  name  wa.s  John.'  -^ 

On  the  We<ines<lay  we  maile  our  sad  |lroce^sion  to  the  church, 
through  storm  and  Hood.  The  village  wa-s  in  mourning,  and 
round  the  churchyard  gates  men,  women,  and  children  stood 
in  throngs.  The  colfin  was  carrieil  in  by  eight  of  those  who 
liatl  been  in  his  employ,  and  the  church  (illetl  noiselessly  with 
neighbours  and  friends,  who  after  a  hymn,  and  the  I^ord's 
Praver,  and  a  long  silence,  passed  up  the  aisles  for  their  last 
look,  and  to  heap  more  oHerings  of  wreaths  and  Ho  were 
around  the  bier.  At  dusk  tall  candles  were  lit,  and  io 
thit)ugh  the  winter's  night  watch  was  kept. 


406        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

Thursday,  the  25th,  broujjjht  together  a  great  assembly, 
pi-eat  for  the  remoteness  of  the  place  and  the  inclemency  of 
the  weather.  The  country  folk  have  a  saying  '  Happy  is  the 
dead  that  the  rain  rains  on':  and  the  fells  were  darkly 
clouded  down  and  the  beck  roared  by,  swollen  to  a  torrent. 
The  church  was  far  too  small  to  hold  the  congregation,  which 
included  most  of  his  personal  friends  and  the  representatives 
of  many  public  bodies.  A  crowd  stood  outside  in  the  storm 
while  the  service  went  on. 

It  began  with  a  hymn  written  for  the  occasion  by  Canon 
Rawnsley : — 

' "  Knowest  thou  that  the  Lord  will  take  away  thy  master  from  thy 
bead  to-day  J    And  he  said,  Yea,  I  know  it." 

♦The  prophets  cease  from  out  the  land. 

The  couusellors  are  gone. 
The  lips  to  kiuille  and  command 
Are  sileut  one  by  one. 

•  Our  master  taken  from  our  head, 

In  soiTow,  here  we  pray — 
Lord,  teach  us  in  his  steps  to  tread ; 

Be  Thou  our  guide  and  stay, 
•Till  all  the  righteousness  he  loved, 
The  sympathy  he  sought. 
The  truth  by  deed  and  word  he  proved, 
Be  made  our  daily  thought. 

•  lie  gave  us  eyes,  for  we  were  blind  ; 

He  bade  us  know  and  hear  ; 
By  him  the  womler  of  the  miud 

Of  God,  on  earth  was  clear. 
'  We  knew  the  travail  of  his  soul, 

"We  thank  Tli^e  for  his  rest  ; 
Lord,  lead  us  upward  to  his  goal— 

The  pure,  the  true,  the  best !' 

Sung  by  all  to  the  old  tune  all  know,  'Dundee's  wild 
warbling  measure,"  it  went  straighter  to  the  heart  than  any 
cathedral  anthem.  Canon  Uawnsley  and  the  Rev.  E.  W. 
Oak,  Vicar  of  Hawkshead,  Brantwood's  parish  church,  read 
the  Psalms.    A  hymn,  '  Comes  at  times  a  stillness  as  of  even,' 


ONE  WORD  MORE  407 

was  Sling  by  his  friend  Miss  Wakefield ;  and  the  lesson  read 
1)\  Canon  Ricliinoiul,  arrived  ollicially  to  represent  the 
i;i^lio|>  of  Carlisle,  but  to  mast  of  us  representing  with 
t  >!  iiin:^  associations  all  the  old  times  and  comradeships  of 
1  -  \i»iith  and  early  minhood.  The  Rev.  Ch  irles  C'lia|)min, 
\  ir  of  Coiiiston,  anil  the  Rev.  Rejtinild  AL-ister,  on  behalf 
111  the  Dean  of  Christ  Church,  also  took  part  in  the  service. 
\N  mil  the  Uoail  March  sounded  the  coiliii  was  covered  with 
u  |ull  given  by  the  Ruskiri  Linen  Industry  of  Keswick,  lineil 
with  bright  crimson  silk,  and  embroidered  with  thd  motto, 
*  Unto  This  Last,'  and  with  his  favourite  wikl  roses  showered 
over  the  gray  field,  just  as  they  fall  in  the  Prhwivcra  of 
Rotticelli.  There  wjis  no  black  about  his  burying,  except 
wh.it  we  wore  for  our  own  sorrow  ;  it  was  remembered  how 
he  hated  black,  so  much  that  he  wouUl  even  have  his  mother's 
coilin  painted  blue  ;  and  among  the  white  and  green  and 
violet  of  the  wreaths  that  Hlletl  the  chancel,  none  was  more 
significant  in  its  sympathy  than  Mrs.  Severn's  great  cross  of 
red  roses. 

As  we  carried  him  down  the  churchyard  path,  a  drop  or  two 
fell  from  the  boughs,  but  a  gleam  of  sunshine,  the  first  after 
many  days,  shot  along  the  crags  from  under  the  cloud,  and 
the  wind  paused.  Standing  there  by  the  graveside,  who 
could  help  being  thankful  that  he  had  found  so  lovely  a 
resting-place  after  so  tramiuil  a  falling  to  sleep?  At  his 
feet,  parted  only  by  the  fence  and  the  garden,  is  the  village 
fichool  ;  and  who  does  not  know  how  he  loveil  the  children  of 
Coniston  ?  At  his  right  hand  are  the  graves  of  the  H.-evers  ; 
his  last  old  frienil,  Miss  Susan  Reever,  lies  next  to  him. 
Over  the  spot  hang  the  thick  boughs  of  a  fir-tree — who 
does  not  know  what  he  hfts  written  of  his  favourite  mounbiin- 
pine?  Anil  behind  the  church,  shut  in  with  its  dark  yews, 
ri.se  the  crags  of  Coniston,  those  that  he  we.iried  for  in  his 
boyhood,  and  prayed,  in  mortal  sickness,  to  lie  down 
beneath  : — 'The  crags  are  lone  on  Coni>ton.' 

•  ♦*••* 

It  is  his  birthday  once  more.     We  have  just  been  to  take 


408        LIFE  AND  WORK  OF  JOHN  RUSKIN 

the  children's  posy  of  the  year's  first  flowers,  no  longer  to  set 
on  his  table,  hut  to  hide  in  his  tomb. 

It  is  a  glorious  day  of  frost  and  sun — bluest  of  skies, 
briijhtest  of  mountain-tops,  with  those  noble  brows  of  russet 
and  purple  crag  overlooking  the  churchvard's  golden  green. 

All  our  wreaths  lie  still  there,  withering  away,  forlorn 
tributes  of  affection.  But  there  are  whiter  wreaths  on  the 
giave  than  any  we  laid — garlands  of  snow,  unsullied,  fiona 
Heaven. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY. 


The  Book  lover  and  collector  of  Editions  will  consult  '  A  Biblio- 
praphv  of  the  Writings  in  Prose  and  \'erse  of  John  lUiskin, 
LL.  U.,  edited  by  Thomas  J.  Wise,  London.  Printed  for  sub- 
Bcribers  only,  1889 — 1893.'  The  general  reader  will  be  content 
with  short  notices,  briefly  recording  Mr.  Ruskin's  literary  activity. 
With  permission  from  ^lr.  Wise  and  his  co-editor,  Mr.  James  P. 
Smart,  Jun.,  to  avail  myself  of  their  work,  I  have  rearranged  the 
titles  of  Mr.  Ruskin's  writings,  whether  issued  separately  or  in 
periodicals,  under  the  dates  of  their  first  appearance  in  print ; 
and  I  have  omitted  several  mere  compilations  not  actually  edited 
by  him,  and  reports  of  lectures  not  furnished  by  him,  as  well  as 
minor  letters  given  in  '  Arrows  of  the  Chace  '  and  '  Ruskiniuna,' 
or  mentioned  in  the  great  Bibliography  as  uncollected. 

The  publisher's  name  is  given  in  brackets  after  each  work : 
English  editions  only  are  named.  Works  without  name  of 
magazine  or  publisher  were  printed  for  private  circulation. 

1834. — '  Enquiries  on  the  Causes  of  the  Colour  of  the  Water  of 
the  Rhine ';  '  Note  on  the  Perforation  of  a  Leaden  Pipe  by 
Rats':  and  'Facts  and  Considerations  on  the  Strata  of 
Mont  Blanc,'  eta  (Loudon's  '.Mag.  of  Nat.  Hist.'  for 
Sept,  Nov.,  and  Dec),  reprinted  in  'On  the  OKI  Road.' 

1835. — Sallzburg,  and  Fra^neiils froma  MetricalJoumal  ('  Friend- 
ship s  Offering,'  Smith,  Elder  and  Co.).* 

♦  All  the  poeni«— their  titles  are  civen  in  italics— were  reprinted  in 
'Tlie  Poems  of  John  Uii<<kiii '  IK'JI  (George  Alleu) ;  and  all  except  those 
of  18.1.>  in  '  Poeui»— J.  B.,'  18iO. 


410  APPENDIX 

1836. — 'The  Induration  of  Sandstone';  'Observations  on  the 
Causes  which  occasion  the  Variation  of  Temperature  be- 
tween SprinjT  and  River  Water'  (Loudon's  'Mag.  Nat. 
Hist'  for  Sept.  and  Oct.),  reprinted  in  'On  the  Old  Road.' 

l8ry6.—T/ie  Months  ('  Friendship's  Ofi'ering  '). 

\S37.—The  Last  Smile  ('  Friendship's  Offering  '). 

1837. — 'Leoni,  a  legend  of  Italy'  ('  Friendship's  Offering'),  re- 
printed separately  with  preface  in  1S68. 

1837-8.  —  'The  Poetry  of  Architecture ';  a  series  of  articles 
(Loudon's  'Architectural  Magazine'),  reprinted  in  1892 
(George  Allen). 

1838. — 'The  Convergence  of  Perpendiculars,'  five  articles;  and 
'The  Planting  of  Churchyards  '  (Loudon's  '  Arch.  Mag.'). 

1838. — The  Scythian  Grave,  Remembrance,  and  Christ  Church, 
Oxford  ('  Friendship's  Offering '). 

1 839. — '  Whether  ^^'orks  of  Art  may,  with  Propriety,  be  combined 
with  the  Sublimity  of  Nature  ;  'and  what  would  be  the 
most  appropriate  Situation  for  the  Proposed  Monument 
to  the  Memory  of  Sir  \^■  alter  Scott,  in  Edinburgh' 
(Loudon's  '  Arch.  Mag.'  for  January). 

1839. — Song — JVe  care  not  nliat  Skies:  song — Though  thou  hast 
not  a  Feeling  :  and  Horace — Iter  ad  Brundusium  ('  London 
Monthly  Miscellany '  for  January). 

1839. — Memory,  and  The  Name  ('London  Monthly  Misc.'  for 
Feb.). 

1839. — Canzonet — The  Winter  s  Chill :  Fragments  from  a  Meteoro- 
logical Journal :  canzonet —  There's-  a  Change  :  and  The 
Mirror  ('  London  Monthly  Misc.'  for  March). 

1839.— Song-  of  the  Ti/rolese  ('  London  Monthly  Misc.'  for  April). 

1839. — Salsette  and  Elephanta  (Newdigate  prize  poem),  printed 
separately  and  in  '  Oxford  Prize  Poems '  (J.  Vincent),  new 
edition,  1879  (Allen). 

1839.  —  'Remarks  on  the  Present  State  of  Meteorological 
Science'  (Trans.  Met.  Soc),  reprinted  in  'Mcr>Uily  Met 
Mag."  for  April,  1870  ;  and  in  'On  the  Old  Road.' 

1839. — Sci/thian  Banquet  Song  ('  Friendship's  Offering'). 

1840. — The  Scijthian  Guest  ('Friendships  Offering')  reprinted 
with  preface,  1849. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  411 

1840-43.— TAf  Brokai  Chain  ('  Friendship's  Offering'). 

1840.  — ro  [Allele]  ('  FriemKhip's  Offering'). 

ISil.  — The    Tears   of  Psammfiiliis  :    The   Tiro   Paths:     The    Old 

IVatenvheel :    Fareirell :    The  departed  Light ;    and    Aguiiia 

('  Friendship's  Offering"). 
184'.;.  —  The  ImsI  Sung  oJ'Arion,  and  The  Hills  of  Carrara  ('  Friend- 

sliip's  Offering  '). 
1843.—'  Modern     Painters,'    Vol.     I.        Seven    editions   of    this 

volume    were    publislied    separately    up    to    l.s()7   (.^niith. 

Elder  &  Co.).     For  subsequent  editions  see  under  l,s()0. 
1 844.  —  The  Battle  of  Montenotte,  and  A  IValk  in  Chamuuni  ('  Friend- 
ship's Offering  '). 
1845. — La  Madonna  deW  Acqua  (Heath's  '  Book  of  Beauty'). 
1845. —  The    Old    Seaman;    and    Tlie   Alps,    seen  from    Marengo 

('  Keepsjike'). 
184C. — '  Modern  Painters/  Vol.  II.     Five  editions  of  this  volume 

were    published   separately    up    to    1S()J)   (Smith,    Elder). 

Also    rearranged    edition    in   2  vols.   (Allen)       For  other 

editions  see  under  18()0. 
1846.— .Vy«/  nianc;  and  The  Ane  at  Cluse  ('  Kecp'-nke  '). 
1846. — iJnes  written  among  the  Basses  Alpes ;    and    The   Glacier 

(Heath's  '  BcM)k  of  Beauty  '). 
1847. — 'Lord  Lindsay's  "Christian  Art  "'(' Quarterly  Review' 

for  June),  reprinted  in  'On  the  Old  Ho.id.' 
1848.— 'Eastlake's  "  History  of  Oil  Painting"  '  ('Quarterly  Re 

view  '  for  March),  reprinted  in  '  On  the  Old  Hoad.' 
184;). — 'Samuel    Prout '  ('Art  Journal'   for    .March),  reprinted 

separately  1870,  and  in  '  On  the  Old  Koad.' 
184y. — '  The  Seven  Lamps  of  Architecture,"  two  editions  (Smith, 

Elder),   and  subsequent   issues  (Allen).       Reprinted   in   a 

cheap  fonn,  with  reducc<l  plates  (-Mien). 
18J0. — '  Poems — J.   IL";  containing  the  above-mcntioucd,  with 

additions. 
1851.— 'The  King  of  the  Golden   River' (written   !,S4!),  seven 

editiotis  (Smith,  Elder),  and  sii!ise(|tient  editions  (Allen). 
ISJI.  — 'The   Stones    of   Venice,"    Vol.    I  ,    t«o    e.litions   of    this 
^         volume   published  separately  (Suuth,   Lldcr^      For  other 

editions  see  under  I85S. 


412  APPENDIX 

1851. — '  Examples  of  the  Architecture  of  Venice  '  (Smith,  Elder, 
&  Co.,  and  Colnaghi),  reissued  1887  (Allen). 

1851. — '  Notes  on  the  Construction  of  Sheepf.ilds':  two  editions 
(Smith,  Elder),  and  subsequent  reissues  (Allen),  also  re- 
printed in  'On  the  Old  Road.'  With  this  may  be 
named : — 

'Two  Letters  concerning  Notes,  etc.,'  addressed  to  the 
Rev.  F.  D.  Maurice,  1851 :  printed  by  Dr.  F.  J.  Furnivall, 
1889. 

1851  — '  Pre-Raphaelitism,'  two  editions  (Smith,  Elder),  reprinted 
in  '  On  the  Old  Road.' 

1852. — 'The  National  Gallery  '  (letters  to  'The  Times  '),  printed 
separately  ;  also  in  '  Arrows  of  the  Chace.' 

1853.— 'The  Stones  of  Venice,'  Vols.  II.  and  III.,  two  editions 
of  each  published  separately  (Smith,  Elder).  The  three 
vols,  were  published  together  in  1874,  the  so-called 
'Autograph'  edition  (Smith,  Elder),  and  reprinted  18S6 
(Allen).  In  1879  appeared  the  Travellers'  edition, 
abridged  (Allen).  With  this  may  be  named  : — '  On  the 
Nature  of  Gothic,  etc'  (from  '  Stones  of  Venice ')  printed 
by  F.  J.  Furnivall,  1854;  two  issues  (Smith,  Elder),  and 
reprinted  at  the  Kelrascott  Press  by  William  Morris,  1892 
(Allen). 

1853-60. — 'Giotto  and  his  Works  in  Padua'  in  three  parts; 
collected  into  one  vol.  1877  (Arundel  Society). 

1854. — 'Lectures  on  Architecture  and  Painting'  (Edinburgh, 
Nov.,  1853);  two  editions  (Smith,  Elder),  new  edition,  1891 
(Allen). 

1854. — '  Letters  to  "The  Times"  on  the  Principal  Pre-Raphaelite 
Pictures  in  the  Exhibition':  printed  sejjarately,  reprinted 
1876,  also  in  'Arrows  of  the  Chace.' 

1854.— 'The  Opening  of  the  Crystal  Palace,'  etc.  (Smith,  Elder); 
reprinted  in  'On  the  Old  Road.' 

1855. — '  Notes  on  some  of  the  Principal  Pictures  in  .  .  .  the 
Royal  Academy  ';  three  editions  (Smith,  Elder). 

1856. — '  Notes  on  .  .  .  the  Royal  Academy,  etc'  No.  II.,  six 
editions  (Smith,  Elder). 

1856. — '  Modern  Painters,'  Vols.  Ill    and  IV. :  two  editions  of 


lUlJLIOGllAPlIY  418 

each  (Smith,  Elder) ;  for  subsequent  Issues  see  under 
l^(iO. 
1856. — 'Tlie  Harbours  of  Enjjland,'  two  editions  (E.  Gambart 
&  Co.) ;  edition  3  (Day  &  Son)  ;  edition  4  (T.  J.  Alhnan)  ; 
edition  5,  dated  1S77  (Smith,  Elder).  Reprinted  with 
reduced  plates,  and  preface  by  T.  J.  Wise,  18;)5  (Allen). 
1857. — '  Notes  on  .  .  .  the  Royal  Academy,  etc.,'  No.  III.,  two 

editions  (Smith,  Elder). 
1857. — '  Notes  on  the  Turner  Gallery  at  Marlborough  House  '; 

five  editions  variously  revised  (Smith,  Elder). 
1857. — '  Catalogue  of   the    Turner    Sketches   in    the    National 

Gallery,'  Part  I.  ;  also  enlarged  edition,  1857. 
1857.— 'Catalogue  of  the  Sketches  and  Drawings  by  J.   M.  W. 
Turner,  R.A.,  exhibited  at  Marlborough   House,'  1857-8; 
also  enlarged  edition,  1858. 
1857. — 'The  Elements  of  Drawing':  eight  'thousands'  (Smith, 
l.lder)  ;  new  edition,    1892  (Allen);    partly  reprinted  in 
'  Our  Sketching  Club '  by  the  Rev.   R.  St.  J.  Tyrwhitt ; 
four  editions  (Macmillan). 
1857. — 'The   Political   Economy  of  Art,'  three  editions  (Smith, 
Elder) ;  reprinted  in   '  A  Joy  for  Ever  (and   its  price  in 
the    market) '    (Allen) :    which    includes    the    following 
pamphlets : — 

'Education  in  Art,*    1858  (Trans.  Nat.   Assoc,   for  the 

Promotion  of  Social  Science) ;  '  Remarks  addressed  to  the 

Mansfield  Art  Night  Class,'  1873;  and  'Social  Policy,"  etc. 

(a  paper  for  the  Metaphysical  Society),  1875. 

1858. — '  Notice  respecting  some  artificial  sections  illustrating  the 

Geology  of  Chamouni'  (Proc.  Royal  Soc.  of  Edinburgh). 
1858.— 'Notes    on  .  .  .  the     Royal    Academy,"     etc.     No.    IV. 

(Smith,  Elder). 
1858. — 'Inaugural  Address  at  the  Cambridge  School  of  Art' 
(Deighton,  Bell  &  Co.,  and  Bell  &  Daldy) ;  another 
edition  printed  for  the  Committee  of  the  School ;  repub- 
lished separately,  1879  (Allen),  and  reprinted  in  'On  the 
Old  IJoad.' 
1859.— 'The  Oxford  Museum,'  by  Henry  VV.  Acland,  M.D.,  etc, 
mod  John  Ruskin ;    various   issues   forming   four  editions 


414  APPENDIX 

(Parker,  and  Smith,  Elder.)  Mr.  Ruskin's  contributions 
were  reprinted  in  'Arrows  of  the  Chace.'  New  edition, 
witli  portraits  and  additions,  1893  (Allen). 

1859. — 'Notes  on  .  .  .  the  Royal  Academj,'  etc..  No.  V.  (Smith, 
Elder). 

1859- — 'The  Two  Paths'  (Smith,  Elder)  and  subsequent  editions 
(Allen).  The  work  includes  :— '  The  Unity  of  Art '  (lecture 
at  Manchester,  Feb.  22,  1859),  privately  printed. 

1859.— 'The  Elements  of  Perspective  '  (Smith,  Elder). 

I860. — 'Sir  Joshua  and  Holbein'  (' Cornhill  Mag.'  for  March); 
reprinted  in  '  On  the  Old  Road.' 

I860.— 'Modern  Painters,'  Vol.  V.  (Smith,  Elder).  The  five 
volumes  of  '  Modern  Painters '  were  published  together 
in  the  issue  known  as  the  Autograph  Edition  in  1873 
(Smith,  Elder).  They  were  reprinted  with  additions  and 
index  in  1888,  and  again  in  1892  (Allen).  With  these 
may  be  named  : — '  Frondes  Agrestes  '  (selections  from 
'  Modem  Painters '  by  Miss  Susanna  Beever),  edited  by 
Mr.  Ruskin,  1875  (Allen).  'In  Montibus  Sanctis,  Studies 
of  Mountain  Form  and  its  Visible  Causes,  collected  and 
completed  out  of  Modern  Painters  ':  two  parts  only  ap- 
peared, 1884-5  (.\llen)  ;  and  '  QeH  Enarrant,  Studies  of 
Cloud  Form,  etc.,'  1885  (Allen). 

The  well-known  '  Selections  from  the  writings  [above- 
named]  of  John  Ruskin'  were  first  published  in  186l 
(Smith,  Elder). 

In  1893  appeared  a  recast  of  'Selections,'  with  the 
passages  printed  in  '  Frondes  Agrestes '  replaced  by  other 
extracts  from  the  same  works  :  also  a  companion  volume 
containing  selections  from  the  later  works  of  I860  onwards 
(Allen). 

With  these  may  be  mentioned  'The  Ruskin  Reader,' 
extracts  from  '  Modern  Painters,'  '  Stones  of  V'enice,'  and 
'Seven  Lamps,'  IS95  (Allen). 

Also  '  Studies  in  Both  Arts,'  ten  plates  from  drawings 
by  Mr.  Ruskin,  with  illustrative  extracts  ;   1895  (.\llen). 

I860.  [Unto  this  Last,]  four  Essays  on  tlie  first  principles  of 
Political  Economy  ('  Cornliill    Magazine ') ;    reprinted   as 


BIBUOGRAPHY  415 

•  Unto  this  Last/  1 S62  (Smith,  Elder  &  Co.),  and  subse- 
quent editions  (Allen).  With  this  may  be  named  : — 'The 
Pi'^hts  of  L.ibour  accordinrr  to  John  Huskin,'  arranged  by 
Thomas  Barclay  (extracts  I'rom  '  Unto  this  Last,'  with  a 
letter  from  Mr.  Huskin),  1S87  (C.  Merrick,  Leicester); 
edition  2  (n.d.);  edition  S,  188<)  (W.  Reeves). 

ISGl. — 'Tree  Twigs  '  (Proceedings  of  tiie  Royal  Institution),  re- 
printed separately  ;  also  in  '  On  the  Old  Road.' 

1S62-3.  —  [Munera  Pulverls] :  Essays  in  Political  Economy 
('Eraser's  Magazine');  reprinted  as  'Munera  Pulveris'; 
other  editions  (Allen). 

1863. — '  Forms  of  the  Stratified  Alps  of  Savoy'  (Proceedings  of 
the  Royal  Institution),  reprinted  separately  :  also  reprinted 
with  variations  in  'The  Geologist'  for  July,  18()3;  and 
reported  fully  in  French  in  the  '  Journal  de  Genive,' 
Sept.  2nd,  18()3  ;  also  in  '  On  the  Old  Road.' 

1865. — 'Sesame  and  Lilies';  four  editions  (Smith,  Elder);  and 
many  editions  (Allen)  in  original  form.  Revised  and  en 
larged  by  the  addition  of  lecture  on  'The  Mystery  of  Life  ' 
(printed  in  Dublin  Afternoon  Lectures,  18()<)),  in  which 
form  five  editions  have  appeared  (.Mien).  The  Lecture  on 
the  Queen's  Gardens  was  printed  as  a  pamphlet  in  aid  of 
the  St  Andrew's  Schools  Fund,  ISG-i. 

1865. — '  Notes  on  the  Shape  and  Structure  of  some  parts  of  the 
Alps,'  etc.  ('  Geol.  Mag.'  for  Feb.  and  .May). 

1865-6. — 'The  Cestus  of  Aglaia';  nine  papers  in  the  'Art 
Journal,'  partly  reprinted  in  '  On  the  Old  Road '  and  in 
'The  Queen  of  the  Air.' 

1866.— 'The  Ethics  of  the  Dust'  (Smith,  Elder),  and  subsequent 
editions  (Allen). 

1866.— 'Ihe  Crown  of  Wild  Olive';  three  editions  (Smith, 
Elder),  and  subsequent  editions  (Allen).  Of  these  lectures 
were  printed  separately  :  '  War,'  1S66  ;  and  ('The  Future 
o:  England ')  a  paper  read  at  the  Royal  Artillery  Insti- 
tulion,  Woolwich,  I8(i!>. 

1867. — •  Re|K)rt  on  the  Turner  Drawings  in  the  National  Gallery' 
(.Annual  Reports,  .Nat.  Gall.). 

\867.— 'Time   and   Tide    by    Weare   and    Tyne ';    twenty-five 


416  APPENDIX 

letters  first  published  in  the  '  Manchester  Examiner '  and 
the  'Leeds  Mercury';  two  editions  (Smith,  Elder),  and 
subsequent  editions  (Allen). 

1867-70. — 'On  Banded  and  Brecciated  Concretions';  seven 
papers  in  the  '  Geol.  Mag.' 

1 868. — Introduction  to  '  German  Popular  Stories,'  illustrated  by 
Cruikshank  (John  Camden  Hotten). 

1868.— (First)  '  Notes  on  the  General  Principles  of  Employment 
for  the  Destitute  and  Criminal  Classes ';  two  issues  in  the 
same  year. 

1869. — Catalogue  of  Pictures  sold  at  Christie's. 

1869. — Catalogue  of  Pictures  in  Illustration  of  Lecture  on  the 
Flamboyant  Architecture  of  the  Valley  of  the  Somme. 

1869.— 'The  Queen  of  the  Air';  two  editions  (Smith,  Elder), 
and  others  subsequently  (Allen). 

1870. — 'Verona  and  its  Rivers'  (Proceedings  of  the  Royal  Insti- 
tution), abstract  reprinted  in  'On  the  Old  Road';  also  at 
length  in  '  Verona,  and  other  Lectures,'  1 894  (Allen). 

'  Catalogue  of  Drawings  and  Photogi-aphs  '  (illustrating 
the  above  lecture),  reprinted  in  '  On  the  Old  Road.' 

1870. — '  Lectures  on  Art';  three  editions  (Clarendon  Press),  and 
small  edition  (Allen). 

1870. — 'Catalogue  of  Examples  arranged  for  Elementary  Study 
in  the  University  Galleries '  (Clarendon  Press).  With  this 
may  be  named  :  '  Catalogue  of  the  Reference  Series ' 
(1871);  'Catalogue  of  the  Educational  Series'  (1871  and 
1874)  ;  and  'Instructions  in  Elementary  Drawing'  (1872), 
five  editions. 

1871. — 'The  Range  of  Intellectual  Conception  proportioned  to 
the  Rank  in  Animated  Life ';  a  paper  for  the  Metaphysical 
Society  ;  also  printed  in  the  '  Contemporary  Review '  for 
June,  and  in  '  On  the  Old  Road.' 

1871-84. — 'Fors  Clavigera.'  Letters  1 — 84  published  monthly 
from  Jan.  1st,  1871  to  Dec.  1st,  1877.  Letters  85—96 
(1 — 12  of  the  New  Series)  published  at  intervals  from 
1878-84  ;  afterwards  collected  in  eight  volumes  (Allen) 
and  in  four  small  volumes,  uniform  with  the  cheap  editions 
of  Mr.  Ruskin's  works,  1896  (Allen). 


UIBLIOGUAl'IIY  417 

With  this  may  be  named: — •  Inilcx  to  Vols.  I.  and  II.,' 
1873  ;  '  Inik-x  to  Vols.  111.  ami  IV.,'  187,5  (.\llcn).  Article 
on  J.  D.  l"orl)es,  chieHy  from  'Fors'  No.  :H,  in  lU-iidu's 
'Glaciers  of  Savoy,"  translated  by  Alfred  Wills,  Q.C.  (Mac- 
millaii).  'Letter  to  Young  Girls,'  from  'Fors'  Nos.  ().') 
and  (iti;  ei{;hteen  editions  up  to  18<)0  (Allen).  Also  the 
following  publications  relating  to  St.  George's  Guild: — 
'Abstract  of  the  Objects  and  Constitution,'  1878  ;  '  Memor- 
andum and  Articles  of  Association,'  1878;  'Master's  Re- 
port' for  1879,  1881,  1881.,  1885  ;  'General  Statement  ex- 
plaining the  Nature  and  l'urpose,s,'  188'.2,  two  editions 
(Allen);  'Contents  of  large  sliding  frames' (in  Museum), 
1879  ;  '  Catalogue  of  drawings  made  for  the  Guild  and  Kx- 
hibited  at  the  Fine  Art  Society's  Gallery,'  188()  ;  and 
'  Catalogue  of  Minerals  in  the  Museum.' 

1872. — 'Aratra  I'entelici,'  several  editions  (Allen). 

1872.— 'The  Relation  between  Michael  Angelo  and  Tintorct.' 
several  editions  (Allen). 

1872. — 'The  Fjigle's  Nest,'  several  editions  (Allen). 

1872. — 'Monuments  of  the  Cavalli  Family,  Verona'  (Arundel 
Society) ;  reprinted  in  '  On  the  Old  Road.' 

1872.  —  Preface  to  'Christian  Art  and  Symbolism'  by  the  Rev 

R.   St.   J.  Tyrwhitt  (Smith,  Elder),  reprinted  in  'On  the 

Old  Road.' 
1873. — '  The  Nature  and  Authority  of  Miracle  ':  A  paper  for  the 

Metaphysical   Society,   reprinted    privately ;    published   in 

the  'Contemporary  Review  '  for  March,  1873,  and  in  'On 

the  Old  Road." 
1873. — 'Love's    Meinie,'   Parts   I.  and  II.  published  separately, 

two  editions;   Part  ML  was  issued  in  1881.     The  complete 

volume  in  1882  (Allen). 

1873.  — 'Ariadne  Florentina,"  six  lectures  issued  separately  ;  sub- 
sequently as  one  volume,  in  several  editions  (.Mien), 

1 87+. — '  \'al  d'Arno,'  ten  lectures  issued  separately;  subse- 
quently as  one  volume,  in  several  editions  (.Allen). 

1875. — •  Notes  on  .  .  .  the  Royal  Academy,"  four  editions  (Allen, 
and  Kllis  &  White). 

18T5-7. — '  Mornings  in  Florence ';  six  parts  issued  tep4nte]jr,  ia 
«7 


418  APPENDIX 

several  editions  (Allen).    With  this  may  be  named  : — 'The 
Shepherd's   Tower  '  (photographs  of  Giotto's  Campanile),    i 
1881  (William  Ward).  ■: 

1875-86. — 'Proserpina/  ten  parts  in  several  editions;  collected    ! 
into  two  volumes  (Allen).  ', 

1875-83. — 'Deucalion,'  eight  parts,  some  of  which  ran  to  two 
editions ;  collected  into  two  volumes  (Allen).  With  this 
may  be  named  : — '  Yewdale  and  its  Streamlets,"  reprinted 
from  the  '  Kendal  Mercury,'  1877  ;  'The  Limestone  Alps 
of  Savoy,'  by  W.  G.  CoUingwood  ;  edited  with  introduction 
by  Mr.  Ruskin  as  supplement  to  '  Deucalion,'  1884  (Allen). 

1876. — 'Modern  Warfare'  (' Fraser' s  Mag.'  for  July),  reprinted 
in  '  Arrows  of  the  Chace.' 

1876.— Preface  and  Notes  to  'The  Art  Schools  of  Mediaeval 
Christendom,'  by  Miss  A.  C.  Owen  (Mozley  &  Smith)  ;  re- 
printed in  '  On  the  Old  Road.' 

1876. — Preface  to  '  A  Protest  against  the  Extension  of  Railways 
in  the  Lake  District,'  by  Robert  Somervell  (J.  Garnett,  and 
Simjjkin  &  Marshall)  ;  reprinted  in  '  On  the  Old  Road.' 

1876.— 'Bibliotheca  Pastorum,  Vol.  L;  The  Economist  of 
Xenophon,'  translated  by  A.  D.  O.  Wedderburn,  and  W. 
G.  CoUingwood  ;  edited  with  preface  by  Mr.  Ruskin  (Ellis 
&  White,  and  Allen). 

1877. — 'Bibliotheca  Pastorum,  Vol.  IL,  Rock  Honeycomb'; 
Sir  Philip  Sidney's  '  Psalter,'  with  Preface  and  Commentary 
by  Mr.  Ruskin  (Ellis  &  White,  and  Allen).  Vol.  III.  was 
not  published. 

IS77. — '  Guide  to  the  Principal  Pictures  in  the  Academy  of  Fine 
Arts  at  Venice,' in  two  parts;  two  editions  (Venice,  and 
Allen). 

1877-84. — 'St.  Mark's  Rest'  in  three  parts;  together  with-- 
Appendix,  '  Sanctus,  Sanctus,  Sanctus  '  by  A.  D.  O.  Wed- 
derburn, 18S2;  First  Supplement,  'The  Shrine  of  the 
Slaves'  by  Mr.  Ruskin  (also  translated  into  Italian  by 
Conte  Cav.  G.  P.  Zanelli,  1885)  ;  and  Second  Sup])lement, 
'The  Place  of  Dragons'  by  J.  R.  Anderson,  1879  (ihe 
above  published  by  AUen)  ;  and  '  Illustrative  Photographs ' 
(WUUam  Ward). 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  419 

1877-8. — 'The  Laws  of  Fesole/  in  four  parts  in  various  editions  ; 

C()llccti-(1  into  one  volume,  187<)  ;  edition  2,  IS8U  (Allfn). 
1878.— 'An   Oxford  Lecture"  ('Nineteenth  Century'   for  Jan.), 
reprinted  in  'On  the  Old  Road.' 

1878.  'My  First  Editor'  ('University  Magazine'  for  April),  re- 
printed in  •  On  the  Old  Hoad.' 

1878. — '  Notes  on  the  Turner  E.xliihition  at  the  Fine  Art  Society's 
Galleries ';  twelve  issues  and  illustrated  edition  (Fine  Art 
Society). 

1878. — 'The  Three  Colours  of  Pre-Kaphaelitism  '  ('Nineteenth 
Century'  for  Nov.  and  Dec.),  reprinted  in  'On  the  Old 
Roatl.' 

1879-SO. -'Notes  on  the  Prout  and  Hunt  Exhibition';  four 
issues  and  illustrated  edition  (Fine  Art  Society). 

1879-80. — 'Circular  respecting;  Memorial  Studies  at  St.  Mark's'; 
three  issues  (Fine  Art  Society). 

1879-80.— 'The  Lord's  Prayer  and  the  Church':  Letters,  etc. 
Edited  by  the  Rev.  F.  A.  Mallcson,  M.A.  Three  editions, 
varyin;;;  in  contents  (Stralian  &  Co.).  Mr.  Ruskin's 
'Letters,'  reprinted  in  'The  Contemporary  Review'  for 
December,  1879:  also  in  'On  the  Old  Road.'  The 
original  volume  republished  with  additions,  1  S.O(J  (Allen). 

1880. — 'Usury,  a  Reply  and  a  Rejoinder'  ('Contemporary  Re- 
view '  for  February)  ;  reprinte<l  in  '  On  the  Old  Road.' 

1880. — '  Elements  of  English  Prosody  '  (.Allen). 

1880. — 'Letters  on  a  Museum  or  Picture  Gallery  '  ('Art  Journal' 
for  June  and  August)  ;  reprinted  in  '  On  the  Old  Road.' 

1880. — '  .\rrows  of  the  Chace ';  letters  to  news[)apers  collected 
by  A.  D.  O.  Wedderburn,  two  vols.  (Allen).  With  this 
m?y  be  mentioned  '  Ru^kiniana,'  letters  collected  by  A.  D. 
O.  Wedderburn  and  published  in  '  Igdrasil '  magazine 
(Allen),  and  afterwards  jirivatcly  reprinted. 

1880-81. — 'Fiction,  Fair  and  Foul":  five  papers  (in  the 'Nine- 
teenth Century');  reprinted  in  'On  the  Old  Road.' 

1880-85.  — 'The  IJible  of  Amiens':  five  parts,  afterwards  collected 
into  one  vol.  ;  sejwirate  travellers'  edition  of  Chap.  IV., 
1881  (.Mien). 

1881.— 'Catalogue  of  the  Drawings  and  Sketches  of  J.  M.  W. 
27—3 


420  APPENDIX 

Turner,   R.A.,  at  present  In  the  National  Gallery ';  two 

editions  and  two  special  editions  (Allen). 
1883. — '  The  Art  of  England  ':  seven  lectures  issued  separately  ; 

afterwards  collected  into  one  vol.  ;  two   editions  both  of 

parts  and  vol.  (Allen). 
1883. — 'Catalogue  of  Siliceous   Minerals    given  to    St.    David's 

School'  (Rev.  W.  H.  Churchill),  Reigate. 
1883. — Preface    to    'The    Story    of    Ida,'    by    Francesca    Alex- 
ander ;  several  editions  (Allen). 
1883. — Introduction    to    'The    Study    of    Beauty   and    Art    in 

Large  Towns,'  by  T.  C.  Horsfall  (Macmillan)  ;  reprinted  in 

'  On  the  Old  Road.' 
1884. — 'The  Storm  Cloud  of  the  Nineteenth  Century  ';  issued  in 

two  parts,  afterwards  in  one  volume  (Allen). 
1884. — '  Catalogue  of  Minerals  given  to  Kirkcudbright  Museum.' 
1884. — 'Catalogue    of  a    series    of    Specimens    in    the    British 

Museum  (Nat.   Hist.),  illustrative  of  the   more   common 

forms  of  native  Silica'  (Allen). 
1884-5. — 'The    Pleasures    of    England':     four    lectures    issued 

separately  (Allen).     The  course  is  reported  in  '  Studies  in 

Ruskin,'  by  E.  T.  Cook,  M.A.,  1890  (Allen). 
1885. — Preface  and  Notes  to  'Roadside  Songs  of  Tuscany,' by 

Miss  Alexander  (Allen). 
1885. — Preface  and  Notes  to  '  The  English  School  of  Painting, 

by  E.  Chesneau,  three  editions  (Cassell). 
1885. — Introduction  to  'Usury,'  by  R.  G.  Siflar,  two  editions  (A. 

Southey)  ;  reprinted  in  '  On  the  Old  Road.' 
1885. — 'The  Bishop  of  Oxford  and  Prof.  Ruskin  on  Vivisection' 

(Victoria  Street  Society  for  the  Protection  of  Animals  from 

Vivisection). 
1885. — 'On  the  Old  Road  '  (reprint  of  magazine  articles),  edited 

by  A.  D.  O.  Wedderburn  (Allen). 
1885. — 'Bibliotheca    Pastorum,'    Vol.   IV.     'A  Knight's   Faith' 

(life   of  Sir   Herbert  Edwardes) ;    issued    in    three    parts, 

collected  into  one  volume  (Allen). 
1885-89. — '  Praeterita  ' :    twenty-eight   parts,  of   which    twenty- 
four  are  collected  into  two  volumes  ;  Vol.  I.  has  run  to  two 

editions  (Allen). 


! 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  421 

1886-87. — 'Dilecta':   correspondence,  etc.,  illustrating  '  Pricte- 

rita  ';  two  parts  (Allen). 
1886-88. — Preface   and   Notes  to  '  Ulric,  the  Farm  Servant,'  by 

Gotthelf,  translated  by  Mrs.  Firth  (Allen). 
1887. — 'Arthur  Burgess'  ('Century   Guild   Hobby    Morse'   for 

April). 
1887. — '  Hortus  Inclusus':  letters  to  Misses  Mary  and  Susanna 

Beever,  edited  by  Albert  Fleming,  two  editions  (Allen). 
1887-89. — 'Christ's  Folk  in  the  Apennine,'  by  Francesca   Alex- 
ander, edited  by  Mr.  lUiskin  ;  six  j)arts  issued  (.Mien). 
1888.— Preface   and    Notes   to    'A    Popular    Handbook  to  the 

National  Gallerj-,'  by  E.  T.  Cook  (Macniillan). 
1888. — 'The  Black  Arts  :  a  reverie  in  the  Strand  '  ('  M.igazine 

of  Art '  for  January). 
1897. — 'Lectures  on  Landscape,  delivered  in  1S71  '  (.Mien). 

To  these  may  be  added,  though  not  published  by  or  for 
Mr.  Huskin  : — 'Three  letters  and  an  essay,  by  .Fohn 
Ruskin,  1836—1841;  found  in  his  Tutor's  desk  '  (Allen), 
and  'Letters  addressed  to  a  College  Friend  during  the 
years  1840—184.5,  by  John  Ruskin'  (Allen). 

Also  a  series  of  volumes  privately  printed  by  Mr.  T.  J. 
Wise  (189'2— 1896)  of  Letters  to  Messrs.  F.  S.  Ellis,  VV. 
Ward  (2  vols.),  Ernest  Chesneau,  and  the  Rev.  J.  P. 
Faunthorpe  (2  vols.),  and  a  collection  of  '  Letters  on  Art 
and  Literature  '  to  various  corrcspimdents. 

Since  this  list  was  compiled,  '.Modern  Painters'  and 
others  of  the  larger  works  have  been  issued  in  reduced 
form,  in  the  series  of  cheap  editions. 


INDEX 


A-BBF.vnxK,  251-254,  357,  385 
Acland,  Sir  H.  W.,  M.D.,  58,  60, 

Ul,  177,  179,  267 
Acland,  Sir  T.  D.,  178,  289 
Adairs  and  Aenews,  4,  5,  8 
Apnew.  Miss  (Mrs.  Arthur  Severn), 

8,  212.  226,  220,  279,  283 
Alessandri,  Angelo,  323,  329.  370 
Alexander.  'Mm.,  and  Mi«s  Fran- 

ce>ca,  365  367.  370,  377,  385 
Alice,  Princess,  307 
Allen,  Mr.  George,  152,  155,  284, 

294,  391 
Alps,  38-43.  76,  92.  95,  96,  102, 

1131 18,  200,  204-207,  229-231, 

247,  259,  367 
'  Amiens,  Bible  of.'  357,  358 
Anderson,  Mr.  J.  R.,  323,  333 

,  Miss  S.  D.,  374 

Andrews,  Dr.,  and  family,  28,  29, 

32.  35,  40 
Animals,  love  of,  356,  378;  see 

Dogs.  Vivisection 
Anne,    Nurse,    14,   26,   60,    112, 

2>-2 
'Arachne.'  14.  278 
'  Aratia  Pentelici,'  276 
Architects,    Royal    Institute    of 

British,  306 
Arcliiteitural  Association,  lecture 

to,  169 
Arihitectnre,  61-65, 110, 140,  lU, 

146,   169,  2:^1,  2:.3,   263.  367; 

and  see  '  Seven  Lamps,' '  Stones 

of  Venice ' 

Ariadne  Florentina,'  298 
Armytage,  J.  C,  121 


Art.  181,  213,240,  267,274,277, 
278 ;  and  see  Architecture, 
Drawin?,  Painting 

Arthur.  Prince,  278,  307 

Assi*i,  204 

Avallon,  364 

Baker,  Mr.  George,  .^18 
Baxter,  Mr.  Peter,  323.  400 
Beever,  Miss  Mary,  360 
,  Miss  Susanna,  290,  304, 

324,  329,   337,   354,   360,   364, 

378,  389,  407 
'  Bibliotheca  Pastornro,'  309,  315 
Bishop,  Mrs.  W.  H..  370 
Blow,  Mr.  Detmar  J.,  385 
Boats,  159,  350 
Boehm,  Sir  Edgar,  367,  377 
Boni,  Cav.  G.,  323,  370 
Botticelli,  297,  305 
Bourdillon,  Mr.  F.  "W.,  298 
Boys,T.,  121 

Bradford  lectures,  183,  223 
Brnntwood.  15,  281,  297,  302,310, 

340-351,  395-3;'9 
Brown,  Dr.  John,  145 

,  RaHd..n,  264,  323 

,  P,of.  Thomas,  7,  9,  80 

,  Rev.  Walter,  55,  58 

Browning, Robert  and  E.  Barrett, 

18.  162-167,  211 
Bnckland,  Dr.,  50,  58-61,  69,  109 
Bunney.   J.   W..    152,   155,   2u7, 

264,323 
Burgess,  Arthur,  155,  264 
Burne-Jones,    Sir   E.,    153,   260, 

266,  336.  342,  402 


INDEX 


Catnbenrell  lectures,    144,    214, 

Cambridge  lectures,  180,  •j:W-'24l 

,  gift  of  Turner-.,  1U7 

,  hon.  LI,.D.,  2.!') 

Carl  vie.  'Ilicn.iis,  74.  77,  84,  124, 

1-Jt;,   l.'.H,   107,   202,   208,   212, 

2.0.    Tir,.    23J.23.-.,   23'.>,    261, 

2r,S,  •.>^U,  -.K-i,  -.'I'S,  303.  3x7 
Cari.accio,  103,  200,  2G1,  2'J7,  323, 

333 
Carrick  and  Yokin«,  102 
Cesuola,  Gen.  L.  P.  di.  305 
'Cestus  of  Aglaia,'  213,  220 
Chamberlain,  John  Henrv.  318 
Cbaraouni,   3;i,   43,   8-4,   95,   116, 

lllj.  338,  385 
Chesneau,  Krnest,  394 
Chesterfield  forgery,  3«7 
Christ's  Hospital  lecture,  323 
Ciieaux,  367 

Collins,  Charles  Allston,  131,  1.32 
Coniston,  37.  244.  2^0,  3:14,  340, 

341,341-.,  3;.6.  373  375,399 
Coniston  lectore.  372 
Cooke.  Mr.  E.,  150,  15.3,  155 
Copley,  J.  S..  R.A.,  12 
Cousen,  J..  121 
Coiitet,  Joseph,  95,  99,  102,  112- 

117 
Covenanters,  6 
Cowper- Temple,  Mr.  and   Mrs. 

(LordandLady  Aluuut Temple), 

124.  2H9 
Cnr  familv.  7,  8 
'      wley,  Mr.  F.,  243,  253,  304, 

.  j3 
'.    ■■^u  of  Wild  OUve,' 222-225, 

■  ^.lon,  7,  12.  19 

'      .kshank.  George,  33,  169,226 
•.  K.  P.,  121 
.nooieter,  42 

.  Rev.  T..  40-.V),  67,  66,  105 
1  •     •,  Henrv,  66,  68 
1'   .win,  Charles,  61 
I '  utiiark  Hill.  94,  104,  2.-..3.  297 

■  D.  ucalion.'  328.  32'.>,  339,  355 
bevcrell,  W.  H.,  137 


Dickinson,  Mr.  Lowes,  150,  162, 

210 
Dixon,  Thomas  n5 
lio«s,  19,  3.i5,  364 
D.iiiecq.  Allele,  51-.''.fi.  09 

.Peter.  9,  17.  51-M 

Downe-,    David,    243,   253,  293, 

308 
Drawings  by  Mr.  Rnskin,  33-.3.5. 
3X-40.  42,  45.  58.  61,  68,  75, 
81-84.  95,  99,  111,  121,  122, 
146,  181,  213,  251,  254,  263, 
342 
Dublin  lecture,  251 

'  Eagle's  \est,'  296 
Eilinburgh  lecture",  141-1  iS 
Education,    177,    178,    218,    219, 

237.  255.  372,  373 
Edwardes,  Sir  Herbert,  315.  372 
'Elements  of  Di awing,'  154 
'  Ethics  of  the  Dust.'  219-221 
Eton  1.  ctures,  302.  305,  329,  358 
Eyre,  Governor,  232 

[112 
Fall.  Richard,  .36,  43.  50,  77,  91, 
PauMthorpe,  Rev.  J.  P.,  364 
Fielding,  Copley,  45 
Fleming,  Mr.  Albert, 318 
Florence.  102.  365 
Forbes.  J.  D..  95,  338 
'Fors  Clavigera.'  4.  31,  26.1.  284- 

290,  312,  332,  334,  3;!6.  3.54 
' FrieDdsbips OSuriDg,'  42, 43,  52, 

69 
Friends    of     Living    Creaturea, 

Society  of,  356 
Froude.  J.  A..  20|,  203.  387 
Furiua.ix,  Hcv.  H.,  275 
Furnivall,  Dr.  F.  J.,  149,  150 

Gaisfor.1,  Dean.  fifi.  60.  71 
Gale,  Mr.  Frederick,  377 
Geneva,  77.  84,  W.  1 12 
Geology,  41.6I.204-2U9  ;  and  sea 

Deucalion,  Glacier*,  Aliuerala 
Gilj'on.  Father,  3i;0 
G.c»b.ch.  228  230,  20«,  276 
(i  lotto,  102,  141 
Glaciert,  Theory  of,  95,  338,  839 


424 


INDEX 


Gladstone,  Mr.,  178,  332,  371 

Glasgow  Rictorship  contest,  371 

Glenfarg,  23 

GlenfiiiUs,  141 

Globe  models  21,  372 

Goodwin.   Mr.    Albert,    R.W.S., 

280,  297 
Goidoi),  Rev.  Osborne,  58,  79,  96, 

104,  116 
Gothic  Revival,  69,  144  ;  and  see 

Architecture 
Gray,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richard,  14, 

19,  28 
Greenaway,  Miss  Kate,  R.I.,  370, 

376,  377 
Griffith,  Mr.,  73,  174 
Gull,  Sir  Wm.,  M.D.,  362 

Halle,  Sir  Charles,  217 
Harding,  J.  D.,  81-8.3,  93,  102 
Hardraw  Fall,  321,  322 
Harlech  Castle,  35,  73 
Harrison,  W.  H.,  69.  70,  92,  93, 

122,  137,  144,  333,  356 
'  Harry  and  Lucy,'  20,  21,  24-26 
Hastings,  21 
Hazell,  Watson  and  Viney,  294, 

348 
Helps,  Sir  Arthur,  288 
Heme  Hill,   15,   49,  77,   79,  87, 

140.  253,  362 
Hill,  Miss  Octavia,  291,  292 
Hilliard,  Mrs.,  276,  297 
,  Miss  Constance  (Mrs.W. 

H.  Churchill),  226-231,297 
Hilliard,  Laurence  Jermyn,  343, 

385 
Hooper,  W.  H.,  155 
Howell,  C.  A.,  225,  228,  283 
Hunt,  Holman,  130-132, 145,  169, 

265,  369 
Hunt,  'Old'  William,   134,  136, 

154 

Ilaria  di  Caretto,  102,  260,  405 

Jacobites,  4,  25,  233 
Jameson,  Mrs.,  102,  145 
JefEery,  W.,  150,  152,  165,  210 


Jephson,  Dr.,  77,  109 
Jowett,  Mr.  H.,  348 

'  Kata  Phusin,'  62-65 

Keble,  70 

Kendal  lecture,  329 

Keswick,  17,  242,  243 

'  King  of  the  Golden  River,'  78, 

110,  122 
King's  College,  London,  44,  49 
Kingsley,  Rev.  W.,  278 

Lake  District,  17,  27,  30-32,  96, 
108,  200,  242-245,  322 

«  Laws  of  Ffeole,'  323 

Leamington,  77,  109 

Lectures  by  Mr.  Raskin,  141-145, 
168-171,  176, 180,  182,  183,  197, 
201,  205,  212, 214,  222-224, 239- 
241,  251,  2.54,  256-2.58,  268,  271, 
272,276,  278,  296,298,  301-305, 
310,  311,  328-330,  358,  367-370, 
376-378 

Le  Keux,  J.  H.,  121 

'  Leoni,'  52,  76 

Leopold,  Prince,  306,  332,  345 

Lewis,  John  F.,  R.A.,  134,  183 

Liddell,  Dean,  58,  170,  267 

Linen  Industries,  318,  319 

Lockhart,  J.  G.,  107 

London  Institution  lectures,  328, 
367,  375 

Longfellow,  254,  264  [359 

'  Lord's  Prayer,   Letters  on  the,' 

London,  J.  C.,  and  his  Magazines, 
41,  42,  61-65 

'  Love's  Meiuie,'  302 

Lucca,  101,  297,  365,  366,  370 

Luini,  201 

Lupton,  Thomas,  121 

Macdonald,  Mr.  Alex.,  274 

of  St.  Martin's,  109 

Mallock,  Mr.  W.  H.,  101,  301) 
Manchester    lectures,    170,     182, 

212,  215 
Manning,  Cardinal,  359 
'  Marcolini,'  53 
Marks,  H.  Stacey,  R.A,  302 
Matlock,  31,  128,  278 


INDEX 


42J 


Matlerborn,  116 

Maurice,  Rev.  F.  D.,  124,  150 

Maw.  Mr.  Gcori;c,  248 

Miiy  Queens,  ;'.Gt 

Miis>onier'»  '  Napoleon,'  275,  342 

Melnpliysical  Society,  300.  310 

Me'eorological  S«)cietv,  ;iO 

Millais   Sir  J.  E.,   130-132,   141, 

144,  183 
Miliiian,  Dean,  40.  135,  172 
MiUan.1.  Joseph,  393 
Miiitrals  and  Crvstalp,  32,  41,  80, 

24C-2:.0,  328, 32i),  33!>,  303, 37G  ; 

see  '  Deucalion,"  Geology 
Mitford.  Miss,  107,  141,  142 
'  Modern  Painters,'  43,  48,  SO,  88- 

!I4,  102,  lie,  121.  128,  l;-,8,  160, 

ISO,  1S4,  224, 205, 330,  385, 389, 

392 
Moore,  Prof,  C.  H.,  323 

,  Rev.  D.iniil,  135 

Mornex,  19-.i,  19S.201 
'  Morning-  in  Florence,'  324 
'MuneraPiilvei is,"  201-203 
^Innro  of  Xovar,  4S,  335 
Murray,  Mr.  U.  F.,  344,  366 
Jlytbology,  250-258 

Xational  Gallery.  105,  106,  172, 

201,  241,  .302.  370 
N.wman,  Mr.  H.  R.,  3f.5 
X.wton,  Sir  Charles.  58,  137 
Northcote,  James,  R.A.,  12,  15 
Norton,    Prof.   C.    K.,    158,    192, 

193,   204,   254,   276,   290,  298, 

379,  :«7,  391 
'Notes  on    the   Constraction  of 

Sheepfolds,'  126 

Oliver,  Prof.,  .328 

0.xf..rd,  Mr.  Rnskin  at,  31,  4«, 

55,  57-61.  6072,  79.   105,  lUS, 

272-275,  309,  331,  308 
Oxford,  Professorship  of  Poetry, 

0\f..rd,  Slade  Professorship,  200- 
20S,  301,311,309,  378 

Oxford,  Mr.  Rnskin's  lecture*, 
177, 271, 272, 276,  278,  296,  2'.'S, 
301-305.  311.  330,  369.  377.  378 


Oxford  Drawing  School,  274,  275, 

307,  3S4 
Oxford,  Ilinkscy  dicsinjfs,  308 
,   liifu  to,    197,   211,   281, 

.307,  .384 
Oxford  Museom,  Lift,  176 
,    Mr,    Kuskin's    degrees, 

etc.,  80,  178,  275,  337,  393 
Oxford  Bust,  367 
,  Proctor's  speech,  335 

Painting,  64,  130-134,  157  ;  and 

see  Art 
Palermo,  304 

Paris,  17,  40,  51,  97,  227,  254, 277 
Parsey's  Perspective,  62-64 
Patmore,  Coventrv,  29,  103 
Pe.iigreoof  Sir.  Rnskin, 8 
Perth,  11,  12,  l;"),  17,  77,  110 
Photography,  Mr.  Raskin's  early 

use  of,  104 
Pisa,  102.  297 
Plague  winil,  375 
Poems  by  Mr.  R'iskin,  22  28,  31, 
32,  3,")-45,  48.  53,  54,  69,  74,  99, 
100,  122,  218,  390 
Po<-m.",  Newdigate,  66-71 
'  Poetry  of  Architecture,"  62-65 
Political  Economy,  177,  191,  207, 
213,    222  224.    354;     and    see 
'  Fors      Clavigera,"      '  Mnnera 
Pulveris,'   St,    George's  Gnild, 
'Time  and  Tide,'  'Unto  this 
Last  ■ 
'  Political  Economy  of  Art,"  170 
Politic^,    Mr.   Rm-kiu's  attitude, 

2;;:!,  210,  354, 371 
PoHine  tours,   16,  31,  183,  310, 

319-;;21,  364 
'PriDterita,'  14,  31,  49,  193,212, 

242,  2S2,  379,  386 
Pre-Raphaelitism,   130-134,    140, 

140,  156,  1S3 
Pringle.  TboraaH.  42,  43,  52 
'  Proserpina,'  ;-2'<,  363 
Prout,  .Samuel,  'M,  42,  75,  91,  93, 

110.  134,  137 
Publishing  arrangements  of  Mr. 

Rnskin,  92,  93,  105,  135,  TJl, 

'295,  389-392 


INDEX 


'  Quetu  of  the  Air,'  256-258,  390 

Railways,  137,  322 
EH.iHall,  Mr.  Frank,  36t 
Kelii;ioiis.levHlopment,  1R,52,  80, 

100,  lOl,  120,  12-1,  12.%  181,238, 

2'J'.I-30I,  32.\  32i;,  3:)8-361 
Reynolds,  lectures  on,  311 
Richardson  families,  7,  8,  26 

,  Charles,  28,  42 

,  Jessie,  16,  23 

,  Mary  (Mrs.  Bolding), 

2fi,  57,  112 
Richardson,  Dr.  Wm.,  158 

,  Mr.  Wm.,  384 

Richmond,  George,  R.A.,  75,  82, 

88,  137,  172 
Richmond,  Sir  W.  B.,  R.A.,  369 
Roberts,  David,  R.A..  75,  183 
Robson,  Mr.  E.  R..  366 
Rogers,  Samuel,  38,  42,   82,  94, 

124,  138 
Ronie,  75,  76.  82,  297 
Rooke,  Mr.  T.,  R.W.S.,  344 
Ross  family,  5,  8 
Rnssetti,  D.  G.,  130, 150-153, 197, 

225,  369 
Ros.-etti,  T.  P.,  366 
Rowbotham,  Mr.,  35,  36 
Royal  Academy,  46,  131,  1.54 

'-,  Notes,  166,  183 

Royal    Institution   lectures,   197, 

241,  254,  26H,  310 
Runciman,  Mr.,  33-35 
Ruskin  family,  6-8,  44 
,   Mr.   John   James,   7-12, 

16,  22,  38,  44,  46,  48,  68,  72, 

93,  94,  lO.i,  112,  118,  135-137, 

144,    149,  160,    162,   174,    184, 

201-203,  211 
Rnskin,    Mrs.    (mother  of   John 

Ruskin),  9-1  o.   18,  20,   26,  .-2, 

57,  144,  160,  171,212,282,283 
Riiskin  Societies,  394,  401 
'Ruskin,  Tennessee,'  395 
Eydings,  Mr.  E.,  318 

St.  Andrew's  Rectorship,  282 
Bt.  George's  Guild,  289,  312-319, 
331,  337.  383,  387 


'  St.  Mark's  Rest,'  309,  389 

St  Ursula.  260,  326 

S:indgate,  3S5 

Sanssure,  41,  50,  246 

Scottish   ori'jin    of   Mr.   Ru'kifi, 

3-12,18,23,28  [3_'7 

Scott,   Si.-    VValter,   23,   65,    108, 
Sea^cale,  386 
Seddon,  Thomas,  169 
'Sesame  and  Lilie^,'  213.  294 
'Seven  Lanps,'  62.  110.  112 
Severn,    Mr.    Arthur,   R.I.,   279, 

292,  293,  297,  319,  364,  385 
Severn,      Mrs.      Arthur      (Miss 

Agnew),  343,  385,  386,  400,  403 
Severn,  Joseph,  52,  75,  103,  212, 

297 
Sheffield  communists.  317 
museum  (St.  George'*), 

96,  315-317,  344,  363,  366,'387, 

SiUar,  Mr.  W.  C,  290 
Siz.^ranne,  M.  Robert  de  la,  394 
Smelham.  James,  160 
Smith.  Elder  and  Co.,  42,  93,  105, 

13.1,  162,  196.294 
Smith,  S>dnev.  106 
Socialism,  313,396 
Somervell,  Mr.  R.,  322 
Sorhy,  Dr.  Clifton,  248 
South       Kensington       Museum 

lecture,  176 
Spurgeon,  C.  H.,  124 
Stanfield,  Clarkson,  R.A.,91,  183 
Stiilman,  Mr.  W.  J.,  194 
'Stones  of  Venice.'  119-128,  131, 

135,  140,  2fi.3,  3.-i9 
Stowe,  Mrs.  H.  B.,  194 
Street-sweeping,  293 
Swan,  Henry,  316 
Swiss  Towns, proposed  history  of, 

146,  181 

Talbot,  Mrs.  and  Mr.  Q.,  318 

Tall.iires,  204,  367 
Taylor,  Sir  Henry,  94 
Tea-shop,  291 

Telford,  Mr.  Henry.  9,  16,  38 
Tennyson,  94,  281 
Thackeray,  196 


INDEX 


427 


Thackeray,  Mias  (Mrs.  Richmond 
Ritchie).  ;>5 

Thomson,  Mr.  Geortre.  318 

Thornbury,  Walter,  \'M\ 

'Time  an.i  Tide,'  ir-i.-iO,  245 

Tintoret,  103-105,  139,206 

Tolstoi,  VXo 

Tovev,  Harriet,  295 

TovnW,  Arnold,  309 

Trevrlvan,  Sir  W.  and  Lady,  145, 
2il)-J-.'H 

Turibri.liie  Wells.  27,  1.-.8,  176 

Turner,  death  of,  I».t,  136 

,   Mr.    Rii^kin's    study   of, 

.3ft-43,  45.  82,  s7,  95,  ;•••.  154, 
171  176.  192,227,  362,  .394 

Turner,  .Mr.  Ruskin's  defence  of, 
46-48,  88  93.  144 

Turner,  Mr.  Rii-kin's  acquaint- 
ance with,  73.  '.IS,  128 

Turner,  Mr.  R.i-kin's  executor- 
ship, 136,  172-175 

Turner,  Mr.  Ruskin'g  exhibition, 
331-336 

Twe.ldale  family,  6,8 

'Two  Path-.'  183,  333 

Tvrwhitt,  Rev.  R.  St.  J.,  277, 
'297 

University      College,       London, 

lecture,  257 
'  Unto  ihia  Last,"  195,  223 


'Vald'Arno,'303 

Venice,  4.3, -18,  76.  102-104,  119- 

121,  135-140.269,  264,297,  323- 

325.  393 
Vere,  Mr.  Aubrey  de,  94 
Verona,  43,  263-2i;6 
Vivisection,  258,  378 

Walden«ian».  181,  182,  »66 

Wal.s,  34,  35 

Waid,  R^v.  J.  Clifton,  329 

.  Mr.  W.,  152,  163,  155 

Waterl.K),  17.27 
Walt-.  G.  F..  R  A.,  197.  405 
Wed.lerburn.  Mr.  A.  D.  O.,  264 
Whistler,  Mr.  J.  M  N.,  3:16 
Willett.  Mr.  Henry,  249,  329,  333 
Windus,  Mr.,  88 
Winnington.  197.  21.1-221 
Withers,  Charlotte,  64 
Woolwich  lectures,  224,  268,  278, 

296 
Workin?  Men's  College,  150-166, 

16H,  201,  210 
Woruum,  R.  N.,  172,  173 

'Xenophon's  Economist,'  309-311 

'  Tewdale '  lecture,  329 
Yule,  Mrs.  and  Miss,  304 

Zermatt,  96,  115 


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